Quinten Aramdale, 17, D6M:

I don't know what I was hoping for. Whatever the case, nobody comes to visit me in the Justice Building. The outside is heavily graffitied, but the inside is filled with comfortable furniture and paintings. I like to paint with things I find sometimes, to sell and help make ends meet. I'm pretty decent at it, and my work fetches a good price at the market. Unfortunately I can't do it too much, due to the terrible hours of my job.

Or what used to be my job. Now that I can't work for them, the Wallstones might kick my parents out of their shack. What's going to happen to them? Will they be able to afford food without my paycheck? They should be able to get jobs, but then again, they spend every last bit of their money on morphling. They'd rather starve than go without drugs.

I don't get a single visitor. I was half-expecting Julian to maybe come, maybe say something because I volunteered for him, but he doesn't. The girl tribute, Amiee, is in the next room over, and I can hear snippets of conversation and at least three different voices. It's obvious she's getting a lot more attention than I am, but I can't find fault with her for that. What would I do, tell her she's a jerk for actually having friends and a functional family?

There's nobody to say goodbye to, and even the Peacekeepers at the door seem to pity me. Once it became evident that no one was going to visit, one of them walked over and started chatting with me. It's difficult to concentrate, though. If I don't have anybody to bid farewell, I should probably start making a plan on how to survive. It occurs to me that the Peacekeepers get frequent updates about the Hunger Games and probably know the answers to at least some of my questions.

"When am I going to meet my mentor?" I ask the Peacekeeper.

"You'll meet them once you arrive at the Capitol," he explains.

"Why not on the train? Isn't that how it's usually done?"

"They do usually do that, but remember, one of the Quarter Quell twists this year is that the mentors won't be from your home district. Specifically, your mentor will have to travel from District Three, so they'll be transported separately," he answers.

"Why don't they just put each mentor on the train with their district and then swap at the Capitol?" It seems like the obvious solution.

"The whole idea is that mentors have no district loyalty or motivation to support their tributes. The Capitol doesn't want them to meet the kids from their own districts, because it would make the twist useless."

"Oh. Do you think they'll be helpful?" Suddenly a more frightening image comes to mind. "What if they sabotage me on purpose?" The Peacekeeper shakes his head.

"I doubt they'd do that. Besides, you seem like you'll put up a fight in the arena with or without their help. You've clearly got experience." He gestures to my face, and I remember I just got beaten up this morning. The pain has lessened to a mild throb, enough to blend into the background and forget about.

"Not with winning fights," I explain. "I got jumped."

"Ah. I understand now. Look, your mentor will help you plenty, and your escort is there to help you present yourself to the Capitol and get sponsors. There's a state-of-the art training facility, and the trainers are available to teach you whatever skills you want to learn. Now, the visiting window is almost over, so what you've got to do is get on that train and start interrogating your escort like hell. He knows how to help make you appealing to the Capitolites, and how to present yourself when you arrive at the Capitol itself. Every time you get his advice, you put yourself a step ahead of the other tributes." His advice seems fairly solid, so I try to catalogue it all in my mind. The clock on the wall says I have less than thirty seconds before time is up.

"Anything else?" I ask.

"Yeah. Come home. We're all rooting for you."

Eliza Maddox, 17, D2F:

Mom and Pop come into the Justice Building right away. They're well-respected, pillars of the community even, and the Peacekeeper gives them a deferential nod as they walk through the doorway. Pop gives me a hug, his tall shock of blond hair standing up as he does. Mom smiles and puts her hands on her hips, all misty-eyed. "My little girl!" she exclaims, placing a hand on her bosom. "My little girl is finally going into the Hunger Games!"

Your little girl never wanted to go into the Hunger Games, I want to tell them, but I stay quiet. They know this already, even if I've never said it outright. "Oh honey," Mom adds, "We're so proud of you. I know you're not crazy about training at the Academy, and wouldn't want to volunteer, but this is probably even better! You have the esteem, the honor, of representing us in a Quarter Quell year! Why, my heart's all aflutter!"

"Mom," I say quietly, "What if I lose? You know I'll never be a real Career. I place well in training, but I've never given much thought to the Hunger Games like the other girls have. I don't have the mindset, or even half of the appearance to be one of them!" Pop shakes his head emphatically.

"No, Eliza. You have the look down all right, and the demeanor too. I saw you go up to that podium, saw you shake the boy's hand. You looked for all the world like a Career. And you know yourself that you're great with a weapon. All you need is the internal attitude to match."

"The moxie," Mom interjects.

"Yes," Pop says, snapping his fingers. "That's just the right word. It's a brilliant thing to have the moxie. It happens for some later than others. I guarantee when you step in the Capitol training gym, see all those weapons, smell the fear of the other tributes, the moxie will kick in. It always does."

"Even for me?" I've sensed the universal feeling that seems to be present in all of the other kids my age. I think of it as a sort of inside joke, I see and hear it all the time but I never quite know what it really means.

"Eliza, I know it will," he promises. "I didn't feel it until I was about your age. I could never understand what it was that united my fellows, why they liked training so much-"

"Me neither! I always felt like I was missing out on something, even though I couldn't fathom why anybody would enjoy it in the first place-" Mom puts in. Maybe my parents understand my feelings more than I'd thought. Part of me feels like I'll always be alone in this regard, but the better part of me, the wiser part, says that they're onto something.

"But when I got into my first fight, when I stared down the other guy and knew I was stronger than him, that's when it made sense for the first time. And when you meet your opponents and think back to your training, it'll happen for you too," he finishes. "You'll know it when you feel it." The way he describes it makes me feel like it could, like there's still hope left.

"You'll place high," Mom says. It sounds more like she's stating a fact than giving an order. "You'll ally with the Careers, get your throwing knives at the Cornucopia, stay one step ahead of the competition. You'll be the victor and come home safe."

"I'll be the victor and come home safe," I repeat. I'm still a little afraid that the Capitol might not be as gracious as we are led to believe, and Mom or Pop could probably reason out something to help combat those fears, but I don't dare share them in front of the Peacekeeper. "Anything else?" Both Mom and Pop go in for the hug this time.

"We love you, Eliza. And the whole world will too, because you're going to win the Hunger Games this Quarter Quell. The most highly anticipated event in any of our lifetimes, and you're going to be the star of it!"

"Yes, we really do. And trust in us, in your tribute team, but most of all, in yourself," The time is up, and the Peacekeeper looks sad to lead them out.

"You're going to win this year," he tells me. "Either you or Rafe, I'm certain of it. Actually, can you sign this?" He riffles through his pockets and produces a pen and a scrap of paper. A bit taken aback, I sign it hesitantly and hand it back to him. "It'll sell for a lot once you're a national hero," he says by way of explanation, and then the truth hits me. I won't be in District Two anymore, batting at punching bags at Academy classes. I'll be running with the Careers and performing my skills for the Gamemakers, and eventually carrying them out on my fellow tributes.

I'll be on display nationally, for the whole country to see, and my behavior reflects back on my district. Even if it's a flawed district, maybe a bit spoiled, maybe too arrogant for its own good, they are my people. I can hold them captive just by appearing on their television screens, and they will hail me as a shining paragon of a future champion, or else they will hiss in disgust that I am bringing shame to them all. It's clear which one I have to be if I am to survive this.

Radley Allaway, 17, D9M:

Rodney and Dara barge in at once, arguing over each other and sliding past the Peacekeeper to a halt in front of the couch I'm sitting on. They seem to be debating whether or not I'm actually taller than my father, which is a stupid thing to be worrying about right now. After a brief moment of pause, Dara starts off.

"Radley, I just want you to know that whatever happens in the arena, it's been fun being your older cousin. I really have liked growing up with you, and in the tragic event that you get killed, please remember that I love you beyond belief. However, neither Rodney nor I have absolutely no intention of letting that happen, and we've got five minutes to school your ass in what I'm gonna call Staying Alive 101. First lesson, make some allies. Having someone to watch your back is a good idea, which you know because you saved me from getting bitten by a snake last year simply by paying attention. It'll be a lot easier to survive if you're on the lookout for danger."

Rodney cuts in. "Lesson two, practice some combat. No matter how bad you think you are, you're still as capable with a sickle as any grown adult. You've been working in the grain fields for ten years now, and you know what's edible and not. Besides, you can harvest oats faster than anybody I know, even Aunt Jemima, and she's pretty fast." I nod. My mom, his aunt, is a fast cutter. She taught me well. "And you're as tall as Uncle Rob. You've got a height advantage, speed advantage, and skill advantage, especially over the younger tributes."

That much is true. Being six feet tall and strong from cultivating grain is a plus for any tribute, but a lot of other kids don't start using sharp tools until they're older. The Careers will be highly skilled and trained in actual weapons, but my natural knowledge of survival can get me further than some of the other tributes. In every respect, I am an adult. In District Nine, we are considered children and fully obey our parents until we move out, usually at nineteen or so. However, this is probably just unique to my corner of the district since I've seen the town kids act more independent.

Rodney is right though, and he's made a good point. Somehow thinking of myself as an adult with full autonomy and control of his choices makes the whole situation easier to face. Dara and Rodney keep throwing out advice, then tearfully hug me goodbye. They'll miss me for sure. Once they're gone, Mom, Dad, and Auntie Tamsin stream in all at the same time. Their advice is more comprehensive, specific to me.

I try to tuck every last suggestion and factoid away in my mind for later use. Auntie Tamsin has actually extracted a leather-bound journal from her satchel and begun reading off which plants are edible and where water and animals are likely to be found, eventually just thrusting the entire book at me. "Keep it," she says, tossing her hands to the sky. "I've got everything copied down at home too, ever since I wrote this one as a girl, and besides, what's the worst thing they can do? Take it away?"

Mom and Dad impart as much advice as possible while Auntie Tamsin, who has since snatched the journal back, scribbles furiously with a stubby pencil in a few of the blank pages near the end. After a couple minutes of being bombarded with information about everything under the sun, they each say goodbye, really and truly, with hugs and kisses to go around. As the Peacekeeper shooes them out, Mom makes sure the journal makes its way back to me.

While I flip through it, I notice what my aunt has written near the end: recipes for various tinctures, ointments, and poultices to cure all manner of illnesses. I forgot that Auntie Tamsin was an apprentice to a doctor before she learned she couldn't stand the sight of blood. As it turns out, she still remembers some of the remedies. Now that I think about it, I remember a few times I got sick as a child and she dosed me with bitter concoctions and smeared oily pastes on my skin. She even got Rodney out unharmed when he caught the winter cough as a baby. My parents were shocked he recovered.

I clutch the book to my chest. I'm no expert, but even I know that healthy adults regularly die of the winter cough. I'm about to enter the Hunger Games with only a lifetime of working in the grain fields and my aunt's childhood journal to protect me, but one of those two things may very well be my salvation.

Pola Velek, 15, D3F:

My parents rush into the Justice Building immediately, still in their sharp work clothes: Mother with a slim green skirt and cockeyed rimless glasses, Father in a long, boxy white coat with the sleeves rolled up. They both head straight over to hug me, tossing open the door before the Peacekeeper can open it for them, stepping daintily over his shoes. There's a certain businesslike poise to them that is the norm in District Three. From remote machine operators like Mother to prototype technicians like Father, people walk speedily, weaving artfully around one another, narrowly avoiding a collision but never mixing.

It's another reminder of our practicality. We are tools for the Capitol to use, not workers of our own volition. Normally Mother would point out these patterns in behavior, tell me to look here or there and read into the root cause behind it, but she's straight to it today. "Pola," she says carefully, "I'd like to know what your strategy is." While she waits for me to answer, she removes something from a pouch at her side. It's a silver dragon torque, an old family heirloom. She wordlessly fits it around my neck. It is clearly meant as my token for the arena, but although there is a familiar warmth residual of the metal, there's also some extra warmth behind the gesture itself. It's her way of saying I make her proud.

"Make some allies. Neutral people, not sympathetic ones. Wouldn't want to get too attached. Get away quickly from the Cornucopia, try to hide. I'll watch the tapes of past Hunger Games too, try to get the largest sample size of information possible."

"Good," agrees Father. "I think that's a strong beginning. You have an excellent memory and the pattern recognition tests you're so good at are really going to come in handy. While you're in the Capitol, I expect you to learn some new things too. I'm well aware that a few hours of basic explanation will never outweigh a lifetime of instruction and careful study, but you need a baseline to start from. You can determine the patterns of successful and unsuccessful attempts, and infer what you're doing wrong."

Those are my parents. Always looking ahead, favoring logic over emotions. It's a comfortable state, taking in as much as possible and not having to worry about self-doubt or guilt messing things up.

Mother picks up where Father left off. "It's easy to let yourself falter in the moment, but you can't forget that you must make choices based on what will help you most in the long run. No setting fires on the first night because you're cold. All your life, we've been here to protect and nurture you, but you are your own safety net now. You cannot depend on anyone but yourself in the Hunger Games. It is a fight to the death, not a schoolyard game of tag. There is no next round." They're right of course, but I'm picking up the hidden meaning behind their words.

It's a code of sorts, a code for the rebellion. I am more than a public resource, a writer of code, or even a student. I am a person, and I deserve to be treated as such. The Capitol has forgotten how to look after the people who provide it with technology. I would be happy to live in a slum, on the edge of starvation, if I knew that it would be for the greater good of the people as a whole. Unfortunately, there's no way to guarantee or even approximate what would be best in the long run.

Mother means to tell me that if an opportunity presents itself that would improve Panem as a whole by way of my death, then that is what I must do. There are two reasons that she won't say this outright. The first is that a Peacekeeper, no doubt loyal to the Capitol, is in the room and might be listening. The second is that my mother doesn't have the heart to tell her child that they might have to die. She has the same problem with emotion that I do, a desire to care for herself and her family above all else, but a moral need to do what's best for the most people.

Father hugs me first, then Mother, but our brief comfort is cut short as the Peacekeeper demands that my parents vacate the room as their time is up. I think back to the things the Capitolites always say. "May the odds be ever in your favor!" is the first thing that comes to mind. Odds are one of my strengths. They are not about luck or random chance, but probability. Odds problems are particularly tough to solve because there are many variables at play. Tweak even a few of them and the probability of something can increase dramatically, and all of a sudden, I have my solution.

Soya Orlando, 14, D11F:

The Justice Building is cold. That's the first thing I notice. Outside, the summer sun is blazing down, but the building is artificially chilled. Even the Peacekeeper can't help but shiver and fidget, and seems grateful for an excuse to move around a bit when he invites my three visitors in. Devon and Sefiani rush forward to hug me. Kenizie, my best friend, hangs back to let them go first. Sefiani reaches for me and I pick her up.

"Devon, why do we gotta say bye to Soya?" she asks. Devon sighs heavily. At twelve, I'm certain he's terrified. He's just been through his first Reaping. He escaped unscathed, but his older sister got picked. Now he's got to start bringing in money and food, and I'm not sure he's ready to do that. Now he tries to explain what's going on to our five year old sister, and there's really no delicate way to put it.

"Well Sef, Soya has to leave. Maybe forever. She's going to get on a train and go to a special place and she's not allowed to take us, so this might be the last time we see her."

"The last time?" Sefiani pouts in my arms.

"Yeah. So give Soya a big hug, okay?" Sefiani throws her tiny hands around me and starts sobbing. She doesn't want to let me go, but Devon manages to tug her away. "Soya, please, come back for us. Please!" He speaks very urgently, like he knows we don't have much time left. He's right. Sefiani's crying has put a dent in our five minutes. I nod.

"I'll do my best, Dev. I really will. Promise me, though: never take out tesserae, steal if you have to. The rich girl in the year above me, she'll buy if you say you're Soya's brother. Take care of Sefiani, skip out and quit school if you've got to. Please." There are more words, sappy ones, and a final hug with Devon as he carries Sefiani away. Now I've got maybe a minute and a half for Kenizie.

"Soya, oh God, Soya, I'm so worried!"

"You should be worried. I'll steal and lie and kill, but I can't guarantee winning. If I don't come back, you have to help my family. Help teach Devon to haggle, please. He'll need to toughen up if he's to sell things of any kind. Please stay safe yourself, be careful, don't let anyone catch you stealing, and remember to steer clear of danger."

"I will, Soya. And you had better do the same. I hear the Gamemakers don't like people who swear and flip off their cameras."

"You're right. Stay safe, okay."

"You too." The Peacekeeper whisks her out of the room right as she finishes, and the escort appears in the hallway.

"Do you have everything?" he asks. I give my pocket a quick pat and conclude that my pendant is still there. It's the only piece of jewelry I've kept for myself in all my years of thieving; I robbed it from the mayor's wife. It's my own little way of sticking it to the Capitol, and besides, it's a reminder of home.

"Yes," I say.

"Good. Now if you don't have anybody else to say goodbye to, we're going to head to the train station. Unless you'd like to walk all the way there?"

"Not really."

"Great. The car's out in front."

Zea Poales, 18, D9F:

Nobody comes to visit me, but the escort seems to feel bad and decides to keep me company instead. His name is Phoebus and he's a familiar face to everyone in District Nine. He knocks lightly on the doorframe and the Peacekeeper lets him in immediately. "Do you need anything, sir?"

"No, thank you," says Phoebus. He sits down on the sofa across from my chair. "Alright, Zea. We need to make a plan for you."

"A plan? What sort of plan?" I ask.

"A plan for you to get sponsors," he explains. "I make one for every tribute I'm put in charge of, here at the Justice Building if there's time, or else on the train to the Capitol. You're in luck this year. Your mentor is excellent at what she does, but she alone can't do you any good once you get inside the arena. You need to lure in sponsors who will give her money to buy you supplies once you get in the arena. Your strategy at the Reaping was excellent, and you're sure to make a splash tonight once your stylist reveals your tribute parade outfit. It's sure to be absolutely ravishing. But you need a consistent gimmick, something special to draw sponsors to you as opposed to other tributes."

"And what do you suggest? Radley's playing the patriotism card too. I need something else to distinguish myself."

"I disagree. He's being more cocky and loud. The self-assured charm comes easy to him, but you'll have to work much harder to master that. You blew off getting picked, but I noticed that you walked up slowly and curled in on yourself a little. You didn't say too much when I asked for comments. You're still going to be loyal, but you're going to be shy too. We'll make you sound a little self-conscious and the Capitol will see you as adorable. They'll support such a quiet tribute, and your mentor is going to sharpen up your skills."

"I don't have any skills."

"Then we'd better start teaching you some. I've got to take care of some official duties now, but you should start thinking up a game plan. What you want to learn, what weapons to use, what sort of people you want as allies. It might be a week until you enter the arena, but the Hunger Games begin now. Figure out how you're going to play."

He's right, of course. I'm not sure if he's on the right track in regards to my angle, but what do I know about those things? Phoebus undoubtedly knows more than I do, so I'll stick to his advice. In terms of allies, I'm looking for someone smart. Smarter than me for sure, but weaker physically. But they might be able to betray me and kill me with their intelligence. I'd have to keep a very sharp eye out for any plotting going on behind my back. This poses a whole new set of problems, and I can't figure out the solutions to them.

Phoebus did say that my mentor is excellent at what she does. She'll surely have some insight I can use. In the meantime, I'll make sure to put up my front like Phoebus told me to keep doing. I can already use darts, maybe that'll translate into another weapon. An image of a past victor using throwing knives jumps into my head. Yes, I think I'll try those. Even if I don't have many other useful skills, I have a great escort, and a mentor and stylist. They'll do their best for me too, hopefully.

When Phoebus finally gets me, Radley is at his side. It occurs to me that he's getting advice too. What if our interests clash? I want Phoebus to be on my side if that ever happens. Don't get me wrong, Radley seems nice, but in the end, I am my first priority. A much darker thought comes to me, something that's been said to me in a range of disparaging tones. "You're not playing fair!" I think, a bit bitterly, about all of the people who've said that to me when playing ball in the schoolyard as a girl, or after I cozy up to someone for a promotion, or even when I get the right person on my side in a work dispute by bribing them.

I'm not above a low blow when the timing's right.

Soren Ventra, 15, D3M:

The fat escort finally managed to drag me into the Justice Building with the aid of a few Peacekeepers. I really don't see the point of the whole goodbye thing. If the Capitol is going to kill me, they might as well get right to it and skip over the lip service and pampering. I certainly don't think I'll have any visitors, except maybe if Miss Marlowe remembers she didn't get the chance to beat me earlier and decides it's worth coming back to do it now. Thankfully she doesn't, but I think I'd rather have Miss Marlowe than my actual visitor.

The door cracks open. I've been waiting for ten minutes, which in my opinion is ten minutes too long. I busied myself by loudly protesting my situation and throwing things at the walls. Also by spitting on the portrait of President Mikhail, but that's more due to my general distaste of the government than a personal grudge. I at first think it's going to be the escort, telling me I have no visitors and I'm free. No such luck. Instead, Genevieve Fitzgerald enters the room confidently. Because she feels the need to do everything confidently.

Her skin is a deep bronze tone and her dark brown hair is pulled into silky shoulder-length pigtails. She's still in her Reaping dress, a russet-colored affair that's just a little short on her. She's just as pretty as I remember her being at thirteen, when I saw her last. She shoots me her trademark winning smile. Her cheeks look like they've been professionally dimpled. It's a relief to see her again, but at the same time it's the worst thing that ever could have happened to me. "Hi," I croak.

"Hi yourself." She looks at the remnants of a shattered vase on the floor and the sizable dent in the wall above. "Still no patience, huh?" Her tone is wry, and the way she's looming over me in the doorway, hands on hips, and smirking like all get-out makes me feel like she's just here to gloat.

"Congratulations, you won. What do you want? A damn trophy?" I snap at her. She laughs dryly.

"I was actually looking to make up."

"Yeah, right. Because you were so eager to make up when they sent me to juvie. Face it bitch, you were always out to get me."

She frowns a little. "If you say so. I just wanted to tell you good luck. Maybe say something like 'Hey, sorry we haven't talked, I hope you don't die.' But I guess not."

"I hope you die. Buzz off to your mommy, won't you?" I retort.

She glares hard at me. "I came here to say goodbye, alright? I came here to say goodbye to my friend, who is going into the Hunger Games with trained Careers, and who is probably not going to come out. But instead I'm being rebuffed, and he's refusing to let me be nice because he somehow thinks the whole world is out to get him and every little inconvenience is the universe taunting him. Maybe he needs to be a better friend every now and then!"

I wasn't expecting an outburst, but it doesn't matter either way. She's getting too annoying, and I don't know if I can last out the full five minutes she's allowed to be in here. I decide to call for backup instead. "Peacekeeper! Peacekeeper! Make her leave!" Two Peacekeepers storm in and grab her. She desperately swats at their hands, but they manage to start carrying her outside to the hallway.

"Soren, honey! Please, promise me you'll stay safe!" she shouts on her way out. I don't bother with a response. She doesn't deserve one.

Sorrel Harding, 13, D12F:

Mrs. Stoker is my only visitor. The Peacekeeper opens the ornate door for her and she hustles right in, hair flying about her face, sitting her grubby self down on one of the chairs. She hasn't bothered to wear a pretty outfit for the Reaping, most adults don't. The Peacekeeper looks slightly disgusted but doesn't dare say anything with our blue-haired escort lurking outside, scowling about something or other. He might be young and inexperienced as an escort, but he could still have the Peacekeeper instantly arrested on a whim.

Sometimes I imagine what that power would be like, but I'd much rather have love. A family maybe, when I'm older. If I manage to survive the Hunger Games, which I doubt I will. The second Mrs. Stoker has set her bag down, she's straight to giving advice. "Sorrel, listen," she urges. "You need to get out there and make some allies. Get friendly with your district partner and people from other districts too. Pay attention in training."

"Okay, Mrs. Stoker, but wait, what about the kids? Bessie and Tom, and-"

"I'll manage just fine. No time to fuss, got to give you some tips. Remember, Sorrel, never let yourself stop thinking you'll win. There's always hope, remember that. The boy from last year? We all thought he'd die in the bloodbath, but he won. And you can too. Just make sure that you stay smart. You must always be on your guard, even with allies. Understood?"

"Yes, but why would I even want-"

"Because you want to survive, girl. Because they can be helpful for a while, but you're in a fight to the death and you can never truly trust anyone. You stay on the edges, away from danger. Make sure to influence your allies, but never say things outright. When you make yourself into a leader you become a threat."

"But what if they're doing something stupid! What if-"

"Then ditch them, Sorrel. Make up some clever story. You all of a sudden need to go to the bathroom, or you think you see something in those bushes. Whatever it is, you don't need to associate with stupid people. Don't form any close ties at all, that way nothing prevents you from skipping out at a moment's notice. You're used to being adaptable, scrounging for extra food, and hiding to get some time away from everyone else. I see you, but that's only because I have to know where every one of my orphans is at all times. I've searched for kids often enough to know every nook in the whole district. You can sneak around and hide in the arena, and you know how to tread quietly."

"Why should I trust you?" My own question catches me off guard. Here Mrs. Stoker is, the woman who's raised me since my parents died, given me food and shelter for a decade without ever asking for something back. I'm almost ashamed of myself.

"Sorrel," she answers. "I'm pushing eighty. I've watched a lot of Hunger Games in my lifetime, and I've taken away some good lessons from that. You can survive this, I know you can. Just try your best to come back to us."

"Mrs. Stoker, what about the kids? What will you tell them?"

"I'll say you had to go to the Capitol."

"That's good. And when I come back, I'll be able to buy real food for us all."

"Thank you, child. Good luck."

"No, thank you." She gets up just as the Peacekeeper says her time is over. I'm left with a strang, tugging feeling in my gut, a sort of anxiety that has taken hold of me. The annoyed-looking escort steps in.

"Ready to leave?"

"Yes, I think so," I say more to myself than him. But I am not ready. District Twelve is my home, and it hurts to leave it.

"Then get moving. The car is waiting outside."

Hey y'all! This is the first of three goodbye chapters, and I'm super excited to have finished it. I'm excited to hear what you think about this chapter, now that the Reapings are out of the way. Please review and give lots of feedback if you can; it really helps me improve my writing! Also, the next chapter will probably be out on Friday night!

~LC :)