The air is hot and muggy and sticky, and I want to be inside one of houses in the square around me than outside in the place I am.

Children are squashed in front of and behind me, and I can hardly shift without brushing a body part or a piece of clothing.

I lean to the side and peer at the front, where the line moves ahead. Gravel digs into my shoes and feet. That's all this place is. Gravel, sweaty kids, and buildings.

I would kill to be in a building, or somewhere cooler than here. The sun beats down on us in harsh rays, and I'm constantly wiping my forehead and brows.

I pant in the summer sun, and look around for Luke. I wonder if he's doing any better than me.

God, would it really hurt too much to add some shade? It's hot as Hades out here.

The thought that I'm here and what I'm here for sends a thrill of fear up my spine and through my body.

The line moves forward, with tons of boys and girls stepping forward at once. I try and peer over the shoulder of the boy in front of me, but he's too tall.

My nerves are on edge, and I squeeze my hands into fists so I can hide the fact that they're shaking.

I feel like I'm overreacting. I keep chanting to myself that it's fine. It'll be fine. I shouldnt worry about it.

How can I not worry about it? I could be dead soon. I could be dead in less than a week.

I grit my teeth and step forward again, trying to suppress the feel that climbs up my throat like bile. That drains my face of color and causes my hands to shake as if ice were replacing my veins.

Step forward. Don't worry about it. You won't be reaped; You won't die.

But I could die, and both I and the voice that speaks to me in my head know it. I can't acknowledge it, though. That only causes the fear to spiral even more. I hope Luke isn't as scared as I am. I wish I didn't have to say I'm scared.

Who, me? Scared? B.S. Thalia Grace fears nothing.

I do fear something. I just don't want to fear it. I don't want to fear it. I dont-

The girl behind me pushes me forward, and I stumble on the gravel. I catch myself before I can knock into the person in front of me, shooting a nasty glare over my shoulder at the girl behind me.

I'm so close to the table. So close to the end. So close to the reaping and the paper. The paper. That could bear my name and I just have to steal my nerves and deal with it.

The children in front of me thin out, and soon there's not much protecting me from that table. The table that'll read my name back to me and dismiss me to join the other packs of kids awaiting their dooms.

I take deep breaths. In, out. In, out. Ward off the fear, because I'll be fine. I'll be absolutely fine. I don't get picked.

But the fear courses through my veins anyway, and I don't know how to stop it. It makes me feel slightly nauseous and light, and I feel so full of it I could probably float right off the ground. As if I'm just a mere balloon filled with helium.

The kid in front of me is discarded, and he joins his group of people waiting for their slips.

I take a step forward, stealing my nerves and putting on my mask that suggests that this doesn't bother me. That this doesn't scare me as much as it might or should.

The girl across the table from me grabs my wrist and pricks my finger with a fancy machine. It reads my name on it. She presses my finger to a paper to get a bloody fingerprint and dismisses me with a bored hand wave.

I wipe my finger on my shirt and ignore the sharp aching pain on it. A finger prick is the least of my worries.

I join the group of 14 year old girls, walking inside the pack and standing in between two girls, both of which look nervous and pale.

I hope I don't look pale. I hope I don't look as scared and nervous as I am. I hope I look like somebody who doesn't give a single frick about life or about death, and I wish that I didn't have to only look like that, but I wish I could feel like it, too.

I look for Luke in the section he should be in. I crane my neck over the dozens and dozens of sweaty and scared children and look around for him.

I catch his eye, and he gives me a weak smile and a thumbs up. I try and communicate all I can to him before facing the front again like everybody else is doing.

I wonder how he can manage the tiniest smile in the worse situations. Just to make me feel better. If anybody has to die, it should be me. A kind soul like him doesn't deserve to die, but maybe he'd be better off in heaven.

The announcer - Marigold, her name is. As fake as the flowers in Snow's pocket. She's still dusting her clothes off to get ready and look prepared. I can never look at high heels and a dress nevertheless waltz around in it. I don't know how she does it.

I focus on the shine of the sun and the rocks and gravel rather than my fate. The rocks are easier to look at. They don't hit as hard.

Well, unless someone throws one at me. Other than that, they aren't bad.

I look up to the side of the stage, where Marigold is straightening her wig and dusting her clothes off. I don't know why she wants to look as fake a Barbie doll for the cameras.

I wonder if she sees how bad this all is. I wonder why she's always so enthusiastic when sending two more kids to gruesome deaths. Has she been mind-washed by the capital to believe this is ok? Or does she feel the pain and pity of loss and covers it up with fluffy dresses and fake smiles?

I'll have to ask her if I do get reaped. I doubt she'd admit that she does feel pain or loss, though. This is truly just a game to her. I can tell what people feel in their eyes. The way they'd spark or cloud up or get tinted with unrecognizable emotion.

I look at the shiny bowls filled with scraps of paper, then at the horrified faces of the kids around me. I wish Marigold would walk on the stage already. I wish I could just get out of this hot sun.

The dreaded feeling of the arena weights down in my gut, and I fidget a little bit. I want it gone. I don't want this feeling.

I hear the click of high heels on stone and turn my gaze to the stage again. Marigold is walking along, waltzing right up to the microphone.

Finally.

She taps it testingly, and I force myself not to flinch at the noise it makes echoing over the place.

She leans forward into it and starts talking, her smile never wavering. "Welcome! Welcome. To the 74th annual Hunger Games!"

She pauses as if expecting applause. When none comes, she clears her throat and gestures to the huge Tvs where we watch the annual show every year. Displayed for all to see.

I look up at the screens and pretend to be interested, even though I couldn't care less.

I squeeze my hands into fists until my fingernails are digging too painfully in my palms and I have to let go to get out all my anger.

I look back at Marigold when the video blinks out.

She has her eyes closed and she's mouthing the words as if in prayer. I shake my head a little bit, repulsed. Why would someone care so much about children's deaths?

She opens her eyes when she realizes the video stops, and beams at us from the stage. "Oh I love that!" she trills.

I subtly roll my eyes before I can stop myself.

"As always! Ladies first," Marigold says. She walks over to the girls bowl and starts rifling through the slips in all her glory. Taking all her time.

My heartbeat feels like it's sped up, and fear makes my nerves go haywire. I cant get picked and I won't get picked. It's in a slip of thousands. A chance like that - I can't be that unlucky.

A lot of people think that they're anxious when they have a test coming up, or when they come home with bad grades. Nobody ever feels real anxiety unless they're in the reaping. Unless they're name is in that bowl and they know it.

Marigold is walking back to the microphone now, and the click of her heels brings me back to earth. There's a paper delicately dangling between her fingers.

It's not my paper. It's not my paper.

She unfolds it and puts her lips close to the microphone. Her fake eyelashes are so long, I don't know how she can read the paper without her eyelashes obscuring the words.

But she does, and she looks back up with a dazzling smile as if announcing the winner of the lottery. "Thalia Grace!"

Time itself feels like it freezes, and I know my face probably pales. And my blood turns to ice and my legs forgot how to work and all I can feel is the explosion of fear, more boisterous than ever before, running through my veins. Pumping through my heart, poisoning my mind.

Don't look scared! I hiss internally at myself, and through the haze of fear and panic, I manage to make myself look indifferent.

I let myself get escorted by the peacekeepers to the stage. All I can think about is the many ways tributes have died in the games, slow and fast, and how I'm soon to be one of them. I'm joining their ranks.

I catch Luke's eye for a split second, and I can read the fear on his face. The panic at the thought of losing a loved one. He's just as scared as I am.

Though, I don't know who's predicament is worse. Being on the receiving end of death, or having to watch it with someone you love.

Luke looks like he wants to tell me something, but I break my gaze and look ahead as I mount the stage. My shaking hand grazing the cool metal railing. I use the same tactic I used before. I clench my hands into fists to hide their shaking, and find my place on the stage.

Looking down at the relieved faces below me, I feel envy that I'm not one of them. That I can't call myself spared this time.

"Wonderful!" Marigold trills in that annoying high pitched capital accent. "Now for the boys!"

She goes through the same ritual, waltzing towards the boys bowl and rifling around for the perfect slip. I can't pay any attention to it. Panic is the only thing my heart pumps, and I try to force the gruesome images of death out of my head. But I can't get the sound of my cannon out of my ears.

I look for Luke again in the crowd, wanting comfort in a familiar face. Wanting comfort in anything.

He catches my eye, and he looks at me in fear and something else in his eyes. Belief. He knows that I have a chance at winning this. I can tell he believes in me.

I break my gaze again and look around at all the other children as Marigold walks back to the mic with a slip between her fingers.

Whatever Luke wants to tell me now can wait until the Hour of Goodbyes. I choke back the fear that rises in my throat like bile, and harvest that belief in Luke's eyes into determination. To try and outlaw the fear so my act can be more convincing.

Marigold works to unfold the slip, but before she can read the name, a voice rings out.

"I volunteer as tribute."

I perk up, looking for the voice that said that. Wondering why any body would want to volunteer.

Marigold looks intrigued too. "A volunteer! Come on up dear. Right this way now."

A pale boy who looks to be around my age - 14, maybe - steps between the crowd and lets himself get escorted by the peacekeepers.

He has black dark hair, black eyes, and a thin, skeletal figure. He has bags under his eyes as if sleep isn't important to him, and an aura that makes the people he passes uneasy.

He mounts the stage and takes his place, his eyes racking over the crowd below.

"And what is your name, dear?" Marigold asks him.

He looks up at her. "Nico."

Nico. I like that name.

I find myself thinking that before I know why.

"The two tributes for the annual 74th Hunger Games!" Marigold announces with a flourish. "Now you two, shake hands."

The crowd let's our half-hearted applause, and I turn towards Nico and shake his hand. They're cold, as if nobodies touched them for years, and bony.

We break apart and turn away from the crowd to go into the Justice Building. To say our last goodbyes. The peacekeepers escort us there, and I find it funny how they think we may escape so they feel the need to escort us.

As we walk there, and as I make my way to the place I'll be seeing Luke last, I brainstorm what to say to him. How to tell him that I most likely won't be coming back.