Chapter 1: Final Reaping

I knock on the back door to the bakery, standing on the rear loading dock with my game bag slung over my shoulder and the little child bouncing in my arms. I have much happier memories here, though angst-filled ones as well (mostly on account of the Witch). In recent years, my visits to the back loading dock have been ones laced with comfort.

The door clicks open and the Baker peeks his head out, eyes lighting up when he sees me, and even more when he takes in his grandchild.

"Granpa!" My daughter – Peeta's and my daughter – yelps out, leaving out the hard 'D', when she sees him.

The Baker chuckles. "Well, just what are two lovely ladies doing on my doorstep?"

"Squirrel trade, Papa," I explain. The Baker had insisted I call him 'Papa' after I came home from the Quell. To him, it was probably only logical. After all, according to Peeta, we had been married, so that made me his daughter-in-law, right? I've never had the heart to tell him, even five years on, that his deceased youngest son and I never had a Toasting. Still, I had a little girl by Peeta, so we will always be bonded. Transitively, I suppose that means the Baker and I are bonded too, by virtue of my having his grandchild.

"Well, why don't you come in the back so we can make the trade? Rye will be happy to see Focaccia, at any rate."

I smile weakly. "Sure, Papa. Though we can't stay long. I… I have to be back up at the Village when the Peacekeepers come round to collect us. For the Reaping."

The Baker nods grimly as I follow him through the back of the shop and into the kitchen. Most businesses are closed on Reaping Day, so the only other people in the front of the place are my daughter and Rye – Peeta's brother and my idiot quasi-brother-in-law. Rye is due to inherit the Bakery when Dannel (the Baker) finally retires. The middle Mellark son is a crackheaded louse, but he adores Focaccia and loves playing with his niece. He also is singlehandedly responsible for my little one's sweet tooth, sneaking her a cookie whenever he can. Just as he is doing now, and my four-year-old's eyes gleam as she waves it at me.

"Look, Mommy! My cookie has a flowa on it!"

I smile at her tenderly. "It's beautiful, Dandelion." 'Dandelion' is my pet name for my daughter. In many ways, it always reminds me of her dad. For my baby's middle name, I kept in line with the ancient Covey tradition of using colors: her full name is Focaccia Brandeis Mellark. Brandeis is the shade of blue that matched her daddy's eyes – and her own eyes – exactly.

"Hey, Big, Bad Huntress. You and the drunk ready to get paraded around again?"

I frown hard at Rye's flippant remark. He may be five or six years free of the Reaping himself – so am I, for that matter, but that doesn't mean…

"No, and I'm not going to be so cavalier about it until the moment Effie Trinket starts reading the boy tribute's name." At least, I hope that will be the case. Unless of course… but she only has seven slips in there – the bare minimum you can have by the time you are 18 – amidst thousands! She's always been forbidden from taking out tesserae, and I've remained firm on this point, despite some harsh winters the last few years. I take a deep, cleansing breath: just a few more hours, and I breathe easy for the first time in over a decade. Then I take in my four-year-old, and wince: well, breathe easy for the next eight years anyway. Panem above, I hope it never comes to that. I hope by then, maybe these Games will be….

I make the trade with the Baker, who makes a show of holding the squirrels up by the tail to inspect them, causing his granddaughter to giggle. "These will do, my girl." He sets them aside and pays me in coin and a small bag of bread. Our trades have always been like this, ever since his hell-devil of a wife passed away just a couple of months before my daughter was born. The Witch knew about her, of course, and both Rye and I think that the knowledge that her grandchild was to be a girl, but half-Seam gave her a heart attack and sent her to an early grave. I neither miss nor mourn her, nor does anyone else in Town.

The Baker sees me off with a peck on the cheek goodbye. "Please do give your mother my regards." Rye blows a raspberry on Foccacia's tummy, causing her to shriek with delight, and forks over one more sugar cookie.

"Bye, Papa!" I call. "Focaccia, can you say Bye Bye to Grandpa and Uncle Rye?"

"Bye Bye!" Focaccia hollers, her mouth still full of cookie.

"We'll look for you in the Square!" Rye calls. I nod. Then my daughter and I hurry back through Town, across the Seam and up the hill to Victors' Village.

Mother and my sister Prim (who's not so little anymore, a month past her 18th birthday), meet us in the foyer, all smiles. My sister's grin is tinged with nerves, however, and I can't blame her one bit.

"Have a good trade, dear?"

"Uh-huh. The Baker told me to give you his regards."

My mother's cheeks turn oddly pink in that moment, even as she tssks. "That Dannel…." My face creases bemusedly, and I try to put it out of my head. I knew from Peeta that his dad and my mom used to date long ago, before we were born, but…. I shrug, turning to Primrose.

"Are you ready?"

"Yup," she breathes deeply.

"Your name is in there only seven times. The odds are in your favor."

Prim arches a wise eyebrow. "With a sister as a two-time consecutive Victor? I doubt that."

She is wise to worry. I try to banish the thought that Prim would be sent in just to spice up the ratings, so the Capitol can see what the sister of Katniss Everdeen can do. Snow might still hate me for inspiring a brief period of rebellion between my Games, but that was put down. He wouldn't still hold a grudge against me… right?

Of course, I am still hoping we can get our secret networks of rebels to regroup and someday try again. Before…

I hear a sharp knock at the door, and I sigh."That'll be the Peacekeepers." I pass Focaccia off to her aunt. "Take care of her, will you?"

"No!" Focaccia shrieks, big, fat tears forming as she thrashes in her Auntie Prim's arms and tries to reach for me.

"Cacci, darling, you'll see me and Grandpa Haymitch in the Square, but you need to stay with Nana and Auntie Prim, OK? Just for an hour or so, and then you can see me before Mommy has to get on the train, I promise!"

Focaccia is still wailing, and I have to will my feet to move away from her, cross down the foyer and open the door.

A contingent of Peacekeepers surrounds me, guns cocked. Several doors down the street, a similar swarms Haymitch Abernathy, my mentor and only neighbor here in the Village. 46 and washed-up, he nods to me grimly.

Haymitch and I are marched down to the Justice Building, where we are let in through a side door and meet up with Effie Trinket, our district escort. Effie can be a little ditzy, but she cares deeply; she sends care packages to my daughter at least once a month, filled with dolls and beauty products. I've never been about such fineries, even after I became a Victor, but Prim and Focaccia have always been more girly-girly anyway.

Effie now hugs me tight, smiling at me encouragingly. She dares to whisper in my ear:

"I will do my very best not to pick her, Katniss. I think I can even peek at the name before my hand leaves the bowl, and if it's her name, I'll try again."

My eyes become glassy with tears. Effie is in all likelihood taking a huge risk in trying to peek at the tribute's name before she reads the slip. I'm pretty sure it's also illegal: once the escort's hand leaves the bowl, they must commit to the Reaping slip they have grabbed. You can't plunge your hand back in and attempt a do-over. "Thank you," I choke through clogged tears.

Mayor Undersee approaches us to tell us they are ready, and Effie, Haymitch and I are guided through the open, double doors to the stage in front of the Justice Building.

I tune out Undersee's reading of the Treaty of Treason, instead making sure that Haymitch doesn't fall asleep in his chair next to me. The drunk starts to nod, then rouses, alert, when Undersee starts reading the names of past District 12 Victors:

"The Victor of the 10th Hunger Games: Lucy Gray Baird!"

We all bow our heads reverently in respect. Information on our very first Victor was sparse when I studied Hunger Games History in school. I've gotten more information from Haymitch over the years, though he himself never knew her. Apparently, she never even lived in the Victors' Village, the gated community of mansions built only after she vanished into the woods beyond Twelve without a trace. I have watched her Games, however – Haymitch claims he has the only surviving copy, which he allegedly stole from the safe of a former Head Gamemaker, during a medical visit to the Capitol near the end of his Victory Tour almost thirty years ago. Lucy Gray's Games were a shitshow, so no wonder the Capitol nearly succeeded in erasing it from history. The only other evidence of the woman is the stone statue, which still stands in the district school play-yard.

"The Victor of the 50th Hunger Games, or Second Quarter Quell: Haymitch Abernathy!"

Light applause for my mentor, who just gives an awkward salute. He must not be as drunk as he usually is: in past years, he's gotten up out of his chair, shouted and slurred words, tried to give Effie a hug. The first time I was Reaped, he fell headfirst off the stage.

"The Victors of the 74th Hunger Games: Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark!"

I stare down into my lap and try not to cry. Peeta's and my co-win six years ago was historic. I still see his goldenspun hair and his blue eyes in my dreams. Tears gather in my irises, but I refuse to wipe them away or even let them fall. How did it all go so wrong…?

"The Victor of the 75th Hunger Games, or Third Quarter Quell: Katniss Everdeen!"

The first year or two after I came back the Victor of Victors, hearty cheers would go up at this. Now, with these last several summers of my tributes all coming back dead, it is ebbing into polite applause.

Effie bounds up to the Reaping Bowls and I feel lead coil in my stomach. Please, Effie, just get on with it.

She does, thankfully, saying only what must be said and nothing more. "Welcome to the Reaping for the 80th Annual Hunger Games! As always, ladies first!"

Effie moves her hand fast into the bowl, and I squeeze my eyes shut tight in that half-second before the girl's name is announced. Please, in the name of all that is good, let it not be Prim…. Let it not be….

"Pocanne Amberbush!"

I visibly deflate as an emaciated 15-year-old Seam girl shakily mounts the stage. Effie asks for volunteers, but no one says a word. As our escort crosses to the boys' Reaping Bowl, I feel the tears of relief stream down my cheeks. At last, Prim is free. Free! She'll never be eligible for death again….

Effie pulls the male's name so fast, I nearly miss it:

"Apratis Blacaw!"

Another Seamer, by the looks of him, and he emerges from the fourteen-year-olds. Both kids are on the younger side, but not too young. I'll have to see more before I judge them to be hopeless. From the way he is slugging back on his flask, Haymitch seems to already think there is no point.

"Your tributes from District 12!" Effie trills. No applause, the district is released and Haymitch, our tributes and I are escorted back into the Justice Building.

I quickly find my private holding rooms. Effie dubs them "the mentors' quarters." Victors are allowed to say goodbye to their families as well, same as our tributes. Mother and Prim have always made a point to come and say farewell to me, bringing Focaccia along once she was born.

But when the door opens, only Mother walks in, her granddaughter at her hip. I frown. "Where's Prim?"

"She's busy," Mother dismisses, almost hedges. I frown deeper, bemused more than hurt and upset. Busy? Busy doing what? She was just liberated from the Hunger Games Reaping forever! I shrug. Perhaps she is celebrating with friends. I can allow her that. I didn't have that experience, as the year I turned 18, I had a three-month old, and it was my first year as a mentor, having been put through the arena ringer not once, but twice.

I say goodbye to Mother, promising to see her in a few weeks. I remind her to take Focaccia by the Bakery to see Dannel, Rye and Bannock (Peeta's oldest brother) whenever possible. Then I cuddle with my daughter for several precious minutes until I have to get on the train.

"Be good for Nana, Focaccia – Mama won't be long!"

My baby girl whimpers a little but gives me big kisses on the lips and hugs me around the neck. The officer comes to dismiss them far too soon, and no one else comes until the Peacekeepers are back to lead me, Haymitch, Effie, and our tributes to the train. We cross off the platform and aboard the silvery locomotive and we bullet out of Twelve before I can blink.

Only three of us are guaranteed to see the coalfields again.