The reaping for the Sixty-fifth Hunger Games arrives almost quickly compared to years prior. The Odair trawler docks the morning before Reaping Day to allow its workers a day of relaxation before subjecting them to several weeks of psychologic torture. Finnick and his father disembark with the air of those headed to a funeral.
Reaping Eve is almost a holiday itself, considering how some of the districts spend it. One district isn't supposed to be privy to the customs and behaviors of another, but gossip swells to its peak around Game season. Especially sensational are the rumors about District 1, where the tribute is always chosen beforehand and volunteering at the reaping itself is just a dramatic show. According to some sources, on the night before Reaping Day, the mayor of District 1 throws the soon-to-be tributes a party matched only by the Capitol in extravagance and splendor. The guest list consists mainly of past victors, senior mentors, and potential donors—anyone who might help District 1 seize another victory. Tales of the debauchery and depravity flaunted at these celebrations are shocking, even compared to Capitol standards—which means they receive all the more attention from District 4 academy students. Many District 1 households follow suit, if only to celebrate the fact that their children are safe from the Games for another year.
District 4 is not quite so ostentatious. Settled back in their house on the seaside, Finnick's mother grills salmon and kelp for supper, as she always does on Reaping Eve. After they eat, Finnick's father sits on the porch facing the ocean and nurses a bottle of hard liquor. He only began drinking once Finnick turned twelve, and as soon as the Games are over the drink vanishes, sequestered away until next year. Lochlan's gaze is far away as he taps a staccato rhythm against the bottle's glass body.
Sprawled on the porch next to his mother's chair, her fingers carding through his hair, Finnick wishes more than anything to be on the beach, weapon in hand, warding off his fear and anxiety with a whirl of his trident. But he doubts District 4's Peacekeepers will allow a child out so late on the night before the reaping, and besides, his parents need him. And if he's being honest with himself, he kind of needs them, too. They end up retiring early, before the sun goes down, though Finnick is sure none of them will get any sleep.
The next day, Finnick rises early even though the reaping isn't scheduled until five o'clock in the afternoon. When the time comes, he bathes and dresses in his finest (and only) suit—a relic from when his father was around Finnick's age. He combs his hair and indulges himself with a look, critical look in the mirror at his bedside. His thick hair, still damp, falls in waves around his face, framing a pair of piercing green eyes inherited from his father. The suit's rich black material compliments his tan skin, bronze and glowing after years of toiling under the sun. The flush of adolescence has just begun to reshape his body, lengthening his limbs and layering new muscle over his bones, deepening his voice and adding several inches to his height.
When he emerges from his room, groomed and polished, his mother kisses his brow and holds him close for a long time. Finnick is already taller than her by a good margin and is well on his way to surpassing his father's height as well, but he has never felt so small. No words are spoken; no words can express what Reaping Day stirs up inside them. Finnick's father stands to the side, and when his mother finally releases him, he pulls Finnick into a shorter but no less meaningful embrace.
"I'll be home for supper," Finnick says. Whether it be tonight or in a fortnight, whether it be by the faculty of his own two legs or enclosed in a casket. He would come home to his district.
"Of course you will, son," Finnick's father replies. His mother hides her face from them to wipe away her tears.
They walk together to District 4's Justice Square, Finnick in front, his parents flanking him like guards. Situated on the west coast of Panem, District 4 is scheduled to air its reaping last, so the Capitol can watch each reaping live. Even at five o'clock in the afternoon the day is blazing hot, but Finnick and the other mariners barely break a sweat. They are used to toiling under the sun for hours with nothing to protect them but their bare skin. Some of the wealthier shopkeepers are not so fortunate, and they show up already weary and damp with perspiration.
The whole process is a blur: registration, filing into the square, finding his place among the other fourteen-year-old boys. The Justice Building has been decorated for the occasion, bedecked with pretty seagrass and strings of shells and starfish. Everyone is dressed in their finest attire, and for some of the factory families, fine is translated very loosely. If it weren't for the heavy silence, the tension lining each attendees' body, the overwhelming presence of Peacekeepers occupying the streets, Finnick would think they were all headed to some kind of celebration.
A row of chairs line the stage, but Finnick only cares about one of their occupants. Mags sits first in a line of five victors, back ramrod straight, expression befitting that of a queen on her throne. He knows all of the victors by name, has spotted all of them at the academy at least once: Hurley, the oldest after Mags, rendered practically immobile by arthritis; Abalone, who chases away anyone who gets too close to his beach hut with an old fishing pole; Saela, with her liquor and her flock of admirers; and Rhyne, the youngest, who's overdosed three times in the last year.
Finnick doesn't hear a word of whatever nonsense the mayor recites when he steps up to the microphone. He does hear Mags' name when the mayor gets to the list of victors, and he tries to catch her eye. She doesn't seem to notice him.
Ortensia Gladwin, District 4's escort, bustles onto the stage almost before the mayor can conclude his speech. As always, she sports her signature bluish green skin studded with jewels, and seashell earrings so enormous Finnick is surprised they don't rip straight through her earlobes. Her spiky hair is a dyed a bluish black and molded with sparkly gel. Its absolute immobility, even as she wobbles up to the microphone in a pair of high-heeled boots, is a marvel in and of itself. Her lips, the same unnatural shade as her hair, pull up in a startling grimace as she takes a little bow.
"If it isn't my favorite district!" she coos, voice saccharine sweet. "You know what time it is! The Sixty-fifth Annual Hunger Games are about to begin. Aren't you all excited?"
Ortensia's efforts at rallying the crowd receives scattered applause, though they respond more because they want to look good on television than out of any respect for her, the Capitol clownfish. Finnick would hate Ortensia more if he hadn't watched countless other reapings and found that each district's escort has been programmed to the same degree of obnoxious buoyancy.
"Well, let's start the ball rolling with our female tribute, shall we?" She flourishes a bejeweled hand and plunges it into the female reaping ball, which is shaped like a giant conch shell. Even to those privy to the behind-the-scenes operations of Hunger Games politics, there is an air of anticipation, as real and distinct as the stench of fish, as Ortensia clears her throat and recites with all the theatricality of a trained actress:
"The female tribute to the Sixty-fifth Hunger Games is...District 4's own Caspia Deltan."
Finnick and almost every other academy student already knew exactly what name Ortensia would be calling out. A few months ago, faculty had announced Caspia's decision to volunteer in front of a school-wide assembly. But it doesn't stop him or the rest of District 4 from uniting in a significantly louder round of applause as Caspia Deltan ascends the stairs to the stage and takes her place next to Ortensia.
Being four years her junior, Finnick didn't cross paths with Caspia much at the academy. But he'd seen her around, training at the gym or eating lunch by herself in the cafeteria. She's of average height, but broad-shouldered and has the looks and bearing of a solid Career. She doesn't smile or wave as District 4's applause stretches on. She juts out her chin, arms held stiffly at her sides, like a soldier about to be shipped off to war.
"How wonderful!" Ortensia gushes, bouncing a little in her ridiculously high boots. "Now for the boy."
She reaches into the matching shell on her other side. Finnick holds his breath, nerves snarled up somewhere behind his ribs and creeping up his throat.
I volunteer as tribute, he recites in his head. I volunteer as tribute. I volunteer.
"The male tribute to the Sixty-fifth Hunger Games is...District 4's own Finnick Odair."
As the words leave Ortensia's swollen lips, a high-pitched ringing sound erupts in Finnick's ears. Everything around him assumes an odd, dreamlike quality, like he is watching himself from outside his own body, a spectator of his own life. Finnick isn't in control anymore—he's paralyzed, struggling to regain a grip on reality, to process what his reeling brain clearly wants to dismiss. Then all eyes turn on him. The ringing sound reaches a shrill crescendo and cuts to an abrupt silence.
All at once, comprehension floods Finnick's consciousness like a tidal wave. They have called his name. Finnick Odair. His name is Finnick Odair.
A volatile mixture of dread and excitement set the knot of nerves ablaze in his chest, so potent he can feel it burning inside him, can taste it acrid and hot on his tongue. He waits, he waits for Mags to reject him, he waits for the voice of another Career to speak out, volunteering to take his place.
"How about it, Finnick?" Ortensia's honeyed tones slither into his ears, making them itch. "You're going to the Capitol!"
Everyone else is waiting, he realizes. Waiting for him to walk to the stage.
The first face he searches out as he marches forward to stand next to Ortensia is Mags'. And this time, she looks back.
This is the life you've been given, her expression says. Now you have to survive it.
And survive it he will. Finnick lifts his hands and lets a victorious grin spread over his face as the cheers of District 4 fill his ears.