I wake up early the next morning, much earlier than I expected. Judging by the color of the inside of my eyelids, the sun isn't even up yet. I stretch my arms and legs out as far as I can in the limited space I have, but I don't open my eyes. I don't want to be up and moving when my stylist comes in to pick me up. That will only lead to questions about how did I sleep and am I nervous and why in the world am I awake, I should be getting as much rest as I can, blah blah blah. I really don't feel like having a conversation at the moment, so I roll over on my side and pretend I'm still asleep.

I don't go back to sleep, but I do lie there with my eyes closed, cherishing the silence. This hour will be the last real rest I'll be able to get for a while. I know that when Cabriole comes, we're going to have to move quickly; the Games start at ten o'clock on the dot, and all of the tributes have to be on the roof and ready to go at their assigned times. No exceptions, no excuses.

Since they're on the top floor, the tributes from 12 will go first, followed by the tributes from 11, and then 10 and 9 and so on, so I have a while to wait. I try to spend the time planning out exactly what I will do when the gong goes off, but the faces of my family end up wandering into my mind unbidden, and I get distracted. I start to think about what will happen if- no, not if, but when; nobody makes it out of these Games unhurt- when I get injured in the arena.

Farren will scream, I'm sure of it. She'll scream, and then she's going to start weeping like mad, because that's just the kind of person my sister is: a drama queen, right up to the end. My mother is too proud to let herself cry, but she'll clutch my father's hand like a lifeline, so hard that her knuckles will turn white. Even though I obviously won't be able to hear her, she'll be murmuring directions under her breath, telling me what to do, how to survive. My father will sit there, unmoving, staring at the screen without blinking. He won't say anything, but he'll be willing me to get back on my feet as soon as I can.

And Coy… oh, Coy. I know exactly what Coy will do.

My little brother is going to close his eyes because I told him to.

And now, even though my own eyes are still stubbornly closed, tears are streaming down my face. I try desperately to imagine something else, if only to diverge this thoroughly upsetting line of thinking, but I can't, and now I'm morbidly wondering what they'll do if I die, and even the idea of them grieving over me is threatening to break something inside of me, and this is why I shouldn't be allowed to be alone with my thoughts, and I can't stand it-

The door bangs open.

"Heyyyy! Fleta freakin' Riverwood!"

Just in time.

Subtly wiping my tears away on my sleeve, I pretend to stir with a low groan.

"Cabriole?" I ask groggily, rubbing one eye.

"None other. Good morning, sunshine!" says Cabriole in a singsong voice as I sit up and blink blearily.

Cabriole, who has been throwing open the curtains to let some light in, pauses in the middle of doing so and looks over at me.

"Wow. Babe. Your hair."

"I know, I know," I mutter as I get unsteadily to my feet. "I have really bad bedhead."

"No! It's gorgeous!" squeals Cabriole, a wide smile spreading over his face.

"What?" I gasp as he drops the curtains and comes over to me. Still beaming, Cabriole starts inspecting my hair closely. "God, I don't even want to, like, take a comb to it or anything! This is amazing!"

"Yeah. Amazing," I say, becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the way he's picking through my hair like it's a wad of cash or something equally valuable. "Um, can we go now?"

"Only if you promise me you'll get bedhead in the arena," says Cabriole with a giggle, stepping away from my hair.

"Um… yeah. Sure. Whatever."

"Oh, goody!" says Cabriole, clapping his hands together in delight.

Capitol people are so weird.

I make him turn around as I change into the shift he gives me. I grab something from my nightstand and put it into the pocket of my shift. Then the two of us hurry up to the roof of the Training Center, nearly sprinting to make up for the time Cabriole wasted gushing about my hair. At least he didn't ask if I'd been crying, I think as Cabriole pushes the door to the roof open.

We're not a second too soon. The hovercraft is materializing above us. Cabriole gives me a push toward it. "Go, babe."

So I do, running forward and making a beeline for the ladder that descends to meet me. I step up onto the lowest rung, grabbing a higher one with my hands- and that's the last thing I do. A current of energy renders me unable to move as the ladder takes me up into the hovercraft. I wonder briefly if the Gamemakers force tributes to go into hovercrafts now to remind us of what will collect our cold corpses if we die.

My heart is beating double-time at this point, no doubt the result of some deep-rooted instinct for survival, and it only speeds up when a man comes up to me with a needle in hand. Without a single word of explanation, he rolls up my sleeve, puts the needle in my forearm, and injects me with something. Pain laces through my arm, and even though I'm still frozen, my eyes widen. What the hell? I scream in my head as he walks away. What did you just do to me?

The ladder lets me go and drops down to get Cabriole, but my heart is still pounding crazily in my chest. I'm too afraid to scream out loud, so I just stare at the little lump on my forearm in fear until my stylist enters the hovercraft. I hurry over to him immediately.

"They put a needle in my arm," I whisper, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

"It was just your tracker," Cabriole responds, also in a whisper. "They just want to know where you are in the arena."

"Oh," I say, the panic instantly ebbing. "That's all?"

"That's all," Cabriole reassures me as an Avox girl enters the room. We both look at her. She makes a follow-me motion, turns, and walks down a hallway. We do, and come to a room with a long table full of food. The Capitol has breakfast for us. How incredibly thoughtful. I sit down to eat the meal, trying not to think about how it could be my last.

Finally, we arrive at the arena, and the ladder takes us down into the catacombs beneath it. Cabriole and I are directed down a long passageway with flickering lights. The hovercraft leaves, and, left with little else to do, we walk down the passageway. After an indeterminable about of time, we arrive at my designated Launch Room.

Thankfully, Cabriole hasn't said much since our exchange on the hovercraft. Even now, he's silent as the grave as he takes his seat on the sofa that sits in one corner of the room. I walk into the bathroom, close the door behind me, and take a long shower. I savor the smell of the shampoo, the feel of the hot water running down my back, the simple pleasure of stacking all of my hair on top of my head and then letting it fall again. Then I step out of the shower. The warm air starts up as my feet touch the mat, and soon my skin is perfectly dry again. I press my hand to the familiar box, and it untangles, parts, dries, and combs my hair. I smile. Sorry, Cabriole. No more bedhead for me.

I gather my hair back into a high ponytail, brush my teeth, and pull my shift back on. Then I walk back out into the main part of the Launch Room, where Cabriole's waiting with my clothes. He lets out a sad sigh at the sight of my hair, but appears to shrug it off, and helps me get dressed in the outfit I'll be wearing throughout the Games: undergarments, a pale green blouse, light brown pants, a belt, socks, boots, and a black jacket.

But of course, there's one more thing to worry about: the finishing touch. I walk over to where my shift lies on the floor, and retrieve the object that I stashed in its pocket before we left the Training Center.

My birthday bracelet.

I secure my district token around my wrist. As always, it fits perfectly. But it's shining silver, and I can't have that in the arena. It could prove a problem, especially since I'll be trying to stay out of sight through most of the Games. I pull the sleeve of my jacket over my bracelet, effectively concealing it.

I feel like a new person as I test out the outfit. The old Fleta Riverwood, the messenger girl from District 5, would never get to wear clothes like these, sleek and new and absolutely perfect for running.

Then again, I realize as I sink down onto the couch next to Cabriole, the old Fleta Riverwood would never be in a position like this. These clothes are perfect for running because I'm going to have to run. For my life.

I pull up my knees to my chest and bury my face in them, the position of anxiety in which I have so often found myself since the reaping. Fitting, since I've had a lot of reasons to be anxious since then.

I can feel Cabriole looking at me in concern, but I ignore him and concentrate on breathing deeply.

Minutes pass.

"I have a headache," I say at one point.

Without a word, Cabriole gets up from the sofa and brings me a glass of water. I drink about half of it and then set it down on the low table in front of us. I have the completely inappropriate urge to smile as I look at the glass of water. Is it half full or half empty?

I bury my face in my knees again, and, after a moment, Cabriole reaches out and hesitantly begins to rub my back in a circular motion. The gesture is clearly meant to be comforting, and I guess it sort of is, but it's also a little awkward, and I don't really acknowledge it. I don't surface from the safety of my knees until a female voice is calmly telling us it's time to prepare for launch.

This doesn't seem real.

And yet I know it is.

I try to get to my feet, to walk across the room and do as the voice says. But the old Fleta cannot bring herself to get up off of the sofa.

"Come on, Fleta," says Cabriole in a shaky voice. It's the first thing he's said since the hovercraft.

I know I have to go.

So I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and try to summon the new Fleta. I try to be that person I was on the chariot in the opening ceremonies, that I was in my private session with the Gamemakers, that I was in the interview with Caesar.

I try to be the fox.

And that's how I find the strength to stand.

I open my eyes, rise, and walk over to the circular metal plate, Cabriole following along behind me. I stand in the very center of the metal plate, clench my fists, and wait.

Don't get me wrong. I'm still scared, nearly out of my wits. My insanely fast heartbeat is evidence of that. But I'm not so scared that I'm immobile anymore, if that makes sense. I'm not the old Fleta. I'm not the terrified girl who couldn't leave the couch.

Yes, I'm still Fleta Riverwood. But I'm the fox, too, and nothing else has to matter.

"Cabriole," I say.

He looks up.

"In case… something happens… please tell everyone I said thank you," I say, and I'm proud of the fact that my voice doesn't tremble.

My stylist nods. "I will." Then, as if he can't hold it back any longer, he rushes forward and gives me a bone-crushing hug. "Good luck in the arena, Fleta," he says as he draws back, his voice thick with tears. "I know you'll be amazing. You always were."

I know that saying anything now will just revert me to the old Fleta, and I'll probably break down. So I just smile at him.

And then a glass cylinder is lowering down around me. I take a deep, slow breath, willing my heart to stop racing, and unclench my fists. The cylinder starts moving upward. I'm in pitch-black darkness for a few seconds, and then I'm brought out of the cylinder and into bright sunlight.

I try to blink the light away, but it has blinded me temporarily. All I know is that there's a wind blowing all around me, and a crisp, fresh scent in the air that I can't quite identify.

Then there's one more thing: the voice of Claudius Templesmith.

It surrounds me, surrounds all of us, booming out so loudly that the metal plate under my feet begins to shake.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!"

…

As soon as my eyes adjust to the light, I begin scanning the arena, trying to take in as much as I can, as quickly as I can. Okay, Cornucopia full of incredibly useful supplies in the middle. Helpful supplies are strewn about on the ground around the Cornucopia, decent supplies are farther away from the Cornucopia, and not-so-great supplies lie a few feet from my metal plate.

We're on a flat plain. The sun's at my back, which is helpful, vision-wise. There's a lake to my left, and some trees to my right. I glance behind me. There's a drop-off, a fairly steep slope of dirt leading to an enormous field of tall grasses at the bottom. I turn back toward the Cornucopia and glance around at the ring of tributes, trying to find potential threats. And by potential threats, I mean District 2. It doesn't take me long to locate Cato, who is six tributes to my left, and Clove, who is three tributes to my right.

My thoughts race. Since, like many others, I'll be heading for the forest, I'll have to maneuver my way around the bloodbath in general. If they don't go for the Cornucopia, the tributes around me will probably head for the forest, which means they'll be running to the right. I could run with them, and get lost in the crowd- hopefully, the Careers will take them out and not me- or I could run to the left. Most tributes won't be running there, which gives me a clear path to the forest as long as no Careers target me, but on the other hand, if I'm confronted, I'll be dead for sure.

Having made my decision, I quickly look down at the supplies on the ground to try and figure out which ones would be best for me to pick up on my way to the forest. I can't take too many, or they'll slow me down.

The minute's almost up. I can feel it.

So I tighten my ponytail and prepare to move.

The gong rings out, and all hell breaks loose. Some tributes head for the Cornucopia, others for the supplies, and still others for the woods. I'm running through it all, sliding past people rather than shoving them out of my way, willing everyone to ignore me. I snatch up what's convenient, not noticing what I've grabbed, just stuffing my pickings in my sleeves and my pockets without looking at them. I don't grab much, since I only go for the supplies that I know I won't have to fight for, but at least it's something.

I'm almost there. Almost safe.

But then I trip.

As my hands hit the ground, I let out a sharp, involuntary squeal. I can hear it even above all the commotion, and I don't even have to look around to know that, thanks to my complete and utter clumsiness, I've been spotted.

My thoughts are nothing more than a constant stream of curse words as I scramble to my feet. I try to start running again, but from behind me, someone screams my name.

"FLETA!"

Automatically, I turn toward the source of the voice. There's Aiden, limping toward me- I guess they let him keep his cane- and looking absolutely horrified. I blink in shock- what the hell does he think he's doing?- and then whirl around again, only to find a club right in front of me, a cloud of dirt settling around it. I look up, and can't hold back a gasp. Holding the end of this club is the boy from District 4. Baring his teeth at me, he raises his weapon to strike a second time.

But then a full container of water comes flying in out of nowhere and hits the boy in the side of the head. It throws his aim off just enough so that the club crashes into the ground next to me. Not knowing what else to do, I step on the club so that the boy from District 4 can't pick it up again. Then I look around for my savior, expecting to see Aiden.

But no, he's about four yards too far to the right to have thrown it.

"Run, Fleta!" he yells.

But I don't. I just stand there, staring in shock at the person who actually threw the water bottle. The person who just saved my life.

Ryder Anonian.

The Games have barely started and he's already in bad shape. A bruise is forming over his eye, there's dirt all over his front from where I guess he fell down, and, worst of all, there's a gaping wound in his stomach that makes tears come to my eyes. But Ryder's not crying. He's not even trying to stop the flow of blood. All he does is look at me… and give me a tiny nod.

"Ryder, I-"

Almost everything inside me is telling me to go and help him. To fight for him. To save him. I take a step forward, and Ryder starts shaking his head vigorously.

"Run, Fleta," Ryder says in a hoarse voice. "Run!"

And after what he has just done to make my escape possible, how can I do anything else?

So, hating myself every step of the way, I turn and I do as my district partner says. I sprint away from the bloodbath and head into the forest, taking cover behind a tree. For one second, I look back. The boy from District 4 has his club in his hands again, and is striding purposefully toward Ryder, who is wounded and unarmed and doomed. Ryder doesn't even try to defend himself. All he does is brace himself for the blow.

The boy from District 4 raises his club high above his head.

And I can't watch anymore.

So I turn, and I run, faster than I've ever run before, further and deeper into the forest than I had planned, wanting nothing more than to get away from that horrible scene, to get away from everything.

But of course, I can't. I can't even get away from the image of Ryder in my mind, weak and wounded and broken, telling me to run.

And all I can think, every time one of my feet hits the ground, is why – me – why – me – why – me?