CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Pitch and I share the same bed again tonight. At first I'm nervous because I drank so much liquid before bed, but once I settle in next to him, careful not to bump or twist my body as I baby my injured ribs, I don't care about it anymore.

Even though the medication that Dr. Castillo gave me is out of my system and my emotions are no longer dampened, I find that I hold no anger against Pitch for throwing me against the wall. Which sounds insanely wrong. In what world can someone break a person's ribs and give them a concussion and be so easily forgiven? I add it to the mental list of things the Capitol does to us that doesn't make sense. Perhaps I'd be angry if I weren't so scared that I might have caused some real damage not to myself but to others.

It's not even 10:00 PM but we're both falling asleep. Dr. Castillo had told me that I'd need to get extra sleep until the effects of the concussion wore off, and I'd have to be very careful if I was going to also be going to the mentor room. Pitch falls asleep before me, and I curl into him as sleep takes me away, too.

In the morning, I slip out of bed without waking him, shower in my bathroom, and then eat breakfast as instructed before I go to the mentor room. It's Day 10. Nothing has happened since Day 6. All five of us are uneasy as we prepare for something that is yet to come.

But nothing happens. Rosa explores some nearby trees, Nicola tries to keep her muscles limber, Phil dares to leave his treehouse, and Fjord and Oceana swap stories about District 4. It's very boring. A good sort of boring.

"There's an event going on in the farmer's market," Elijah explains to me as I eat lunch. "So they're letting the tributes rest up until they have everyone's full attention to the televisions."

"What sort of event?" I ask.

"Oh, I think it's a betting war," he says.

"What does that mean?"

"Sometimes people start betting on tributes and it gets ridiculous, so they hold events called 'betting wars' to see who will dare to put the most money on a tribute," he explains. "It started a couple days ago, and the longer it goes on, the longer they allow the tributes to have a break because they don't want any event to interfere with their money collection.

"Besides," he adds bitterly. "It leaves the viewers at home in the Districts in complete suspense for a few days longer. Extra time to sit there and wonder if their child will be able to get out alive."

"How long do they usually last?" I dare to ask.

"Two to three days," he shrugs. "Maybe four. The longest one on record is seven days, but that was even before my time."

"Does this happen every year?"

"Nah. Just when there are some good contenders and either of them could be the winner."

"So . . . they're betting on Oceana and Fjord?" I ask. My chest aches.

"Mostly. Sorry, Juniper, but I told you. Don't get your heart set on your tribute winning. There's no reason for them to let either of the other three win at this point," he says.

I've been so wrapped up in my own problems the last couple days that I haven't been as concerned with Rosa as she sits there in relative comfort fiddling with supplies, weaving things with strips of tree bark, and eating good meals. Guilt rises in me as I wonder for the briefest of seconds if I could have done something to help her when I was sedated and tied to a bed because I couldn't control myself. Did I cost my tribute a potential victory?

I can't think like that.

I swallow, trying to push down the guilt. "Thanks for explaining," I say.

"Yep. You'll find that there are all sorts of 'fun' little side events that crop up every year," he says.

"At the farmer's market?"

"Some there, some elsewhere. Really, they just seem to drop whatever they're doing in their pathetic little lives to spend money on murder." He shrugs.

"Oh, and by the way," he says, dropping his volume a little. "Next time you break your ribs puking up your guts, make sure to go for the throat. Does a bit more damage than aiming for the face."

Elijah stands up and heads back to his station.

"Thanks," I reply meekly. But I'm not thankful at all. Does everyone know about what happened? How many people know the truth? Everything will be ruined if people know the truth. I wallow in misery for the remainder of the day, checking in on each tribute but spending the most time on Rosa.

I don't want to know what is going on with the betting war at the farmer's market. Either it's still on or it's stopped. If it's still on, it means that people are placing wages over the lives and deaths of teenagers. If it's over, it means that the break that Rosa gets is coming to a very rapid end.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

The next morning, it's difficult to unfold myself out of Pitch's arms without waking him, and part of me wants to give up entirely and let him keep me in his sleeping embrace for hours. But I am still a mentor, and I still have my duty. I wiggle away from him and take a shower.

Day 11.

I eat my breakfast slowly and then amble down to the mentor room. It's weird to think that at one point not too long ago, this place was bustling with people and activity. Now that it's only the five of us and it has been this way for so long, it seems like nothing has changed in forever.

In the arena, the rain has stopped. I take a deep breath as I survey each tribute, starting with Rosa. Everyone looks a little relieved, none moreso than Nicola whose health is at 38%. Elijah had managed to get her a small amount of herbal pain medication within the past few days—the real medication was far too expensive—but the effects have long worn off. All of the tributes are feeling a chill except for Rosa whose warming shirt has kept her rather comfortable.

With the weather better and the medications taking effect, the District 4 tributes begin to move. They're together still. No need to split apart with Oceana back in the running. She's not at 100%, but she's still pretty damned good.

Rosa stays in the trees mostly. Some might say that it's because it's safer there, but I'm wondering if she knows how to get down without falling. The nimble way she managed to launch herself into the trees the other day might have been sheer adrenaline and luck. The body does strange things when it's put into tight situations. From her perch in the trees, she has also been keeping an eye on Nicola since yesterday. She was doing more than watching birds with the binoculars I sent her. They weren't too far away from each other, but Rosa did not try to get the girl's attention.

For about half an hour, Rosa goes through the belongings in her backpack. The food has mostly dwindled away, but she didn't need to worry about running out of water while it was raining. Her water reservoirs are almost full. Some of her belongings get discarded, such as a small cooking pot and a bag of cornmeal. These things she carefully tucks away into the tree in which she has been hiding. Then, at long last, she wiggles her way down out of the tree. It requires some time because there is no nearby walkway, and she has to figure out which trees would be the safest for her to climb down to get to one of the walkways that is still intact.

Her feet touch solid planks, and she breathes a sigh of relief. She pauses to stretch for a bit, and then she begins walking.

I'm not surprised—but still terrified nonetheless—when I see the two flags for D4M and D4F appear on the arena map close to her. This time, they will kill her. She would never be able to talk her way out of it.

And then I realize that Rosa knows that the Careers are nearby. She's meandering on the platform a little too calmly. Perhaps others would look at this and see a little girl staring off into the fog that surrounds her small world, but I know otherwise. Oh, I know how careful and manipulative Rosa is. And I can see what is about to happen before it all unfolds.

The Careers see her and immediately they give chase. Rosa is already running. Her legs pump fast and the backpack bounces on her small frame, but she doesn't let anything get in her way. Just like when she led them to the Cornucopia, her path appears to be convoluted, but I watch the map closely. The Careers are gaining on her, and I wonder if she's going to have time to make it to her destination.

Yes. Yes, she does! I watch as Rosa makes a sharp left, and she's on the same platform with Nicola, who is tucked into the overgrowth. Nicola begins to move out. Rosa doesn't even acknowledge her. Instead she springs up and towards a tree. Latching herself on, she begins to shimmy up until she is fully enveloped in greenery. The boughs shake as she makes her way upward and away.

Nicola, on the other hand, isn't so lucky. The Careers had seen Rosa turn, and they followed after her. But instead of finding the District 7 tribute, they found the girl from District 5. And that is just an easy kill since Nicola can't even run away.

A cannon booms.

Rosa clings to the branches in the trees, body motionless and her eyes squeezed shut. If she feels any remorse for what she just did, I can't tell. But who can blame a small twelve-year-old girl who wasn't expected to live past the Bloodbath?

"Your tribute's a sneaky little creature," Elijah calls out as he pulls off his monitoring device and throws it onto the table nearby. It lands but rolls off onto the floor.

"Yeah, I know," I say. "Sorry about that."

He shrugs, then stands up. "Nicola was never going to make it." Then he walks out.

There are four of us left. I take a deep breath and turn back to the monitor in time to see the hovercraft remove Nicola's bloodied body. My monitoring device beeps as the donations start pouring in.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Pitch has been making it a point to eat dinners with me so that I'm not alone and tempted to skip them. It's tough to remember to eat when you don't have an appetite or the thought of food makes you sick altogether. Tonight I'm having particular difficulty just breathing. Ever since it dawned on me that Rosa is now in the top four, a weight has spread across my chest, keeping me from drawing in full breaths. She's close—so close. There's just three tributes between her and victory. And although she could never take the others on in direct combat, she's found other clever ways to eliminate her opponents. My sadness at Nicola's death is overwhelmed with my fear for Rosa's future.

I can tell Pitch is refraining from giving me another lecture about mentoring, probably something about how things will be tougher in the future or to not be upset if—when (I keep having to remind myself)—Rosa dies. But he doesn't say it, and I'm grateful. I don't think I could have another worry press down on me because my lungs might give out entirely. Instead we eat in silence, and he keeps pace with me to make sure that I'm not eating alone.

Just when I think that I can make it through the rest of my meal without choking, the elevator opens and in walks Lala.

Technically it's not yet 8:00 PM. It's 7:53 PM. And she looks like she just doesn't care about the time one bit as she strolls on into the apartment. Her hair is piled high on her head and pinned together with barrettes of pine needles. The makeup on her face is outlandish, with a large swath of green and gold paint on her left cheek. That's where I hit her, it dawns on me. She covered it up in the most outrageous way possible. Her high heels clack against the floor as she walks right up to me, puts a hand at the table and looks straight into my eyes.

"This is how it's going to go," she says before either of us are able to protest her presence. "When your tribute dies, you're going to handle it with grace. You are not going to start screaming and yelling or whatever the hell you normally do. You—and Pitch—will move out of this apartment without further complaints. You will accept defeat and be proud for your tribute's sacrifice to our country. And I will chalk up your behavior to your inexperience as mentor and your wild hormones for your newfound relationship. Understand?"

Anger flares up inside me with terrifying raw energy. My body pulsates with hatred towards this woman and her audacious behavior. My heart pumps this hatred throughout my entire system, and I struggle to keep from jumping her and pummeling her face with my fists again. I force myself to remain seated.

"If you don't leave the apartment right now, I will do my damnedest to make sure that no amount of makeup would be able to cover the marks on your face," I warn. The hatred is a heat inside my chest that radiates throughout my body.

"Girl, if you try it again, you'll be arrested before you can blink," Lala replies. And I know that she would. I know that she has been pretty damned lenient so far if she really has the power that Pitch says she does.

Pitch stands up. "Lala, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," he says. "Your message has been heard and your presence is no longer wanted."

She lifts up her wrist and looks at the golden watch face held in place with a thin pink strap. "Technically, I have another six minutes," she tells him.

She is waiting for me to flip out on her. She'll stand here and goad me until I lose control and send her to the hospital again. Then she can have me arrested. Then she can tell everyone how screwed over she was by her mentors and any success of District 7 fell squarely on her shoulders. She will be promoted, as she desires. And I will be punished, and so will Pitch and Rosa and who knows who else. The life and death of many people rest on how I handle myself in the next six minutes.

When neither Pitch nor I say anything, she smiles smugly at us.

"Now, would you like me to connect you to a real estate agent now or when Rosa dies?" she asks sweetly.

My heart is necrotic. It's black and withering, decaying into eternity as the hatred swells and gurgles inside of me with no hope of escape. My anger froths and burns as it sloshes against my broken ribs.

"There's a lovely woman by the name of Nadia Price who will be more than happy to help you out," Lala continues. "She will help you get things sorted out and find the best options. I don't know how long your love affair will last—I imagine that it'll just break apart right after you get home when you no longer have the thrill of mentoring—so don't plan on buying a place with Pitch in mind. Besides—" she flicks her attention at Pitch for a moment before returning to me "—he always has his eyes on other women. Don't want to get your heart broken."

Is this her way of getting back at me? At us? I twist the napkin in my hands under the table. Pitch's stony gaze focuses on the woman, reflecting almost as much hatred as I feel right now.

"Oh, and speaking on the topic of romance," she looks once more at Pitch, unperturbed by his expression, "She does miss you. Quite inconsolable that you turned your attention to a young girl."

I don't know who "she" is, but I can take a stab in the dark and assume it was whoever Pitch was visiting for late-night "appointments" before the Hunger Games began.

"You might need to comfort her. She was so sad when Green died."

Is she finished yet?

No, the clock on the wall says she still has plenty of time to dig in with more remarks.

"Juniper, I really do feel sorry for you. You were such a good tribute last year," she turns to me. "Your mentor has deceived you in many ways, from not telling you about his many sordid affairs and romantic flings to failing to explain your role in the Capitol. It really does fall upon him to make sure that you're educated about your position, and how to respect those around you. I suppose that sort of stuff is lost on the district populations." She sighs dramatically. "Well, once Rosa is finally dead, you'll have the option of writing a letter home to her family to reassure them that her sacrifice was worthwhile. If you choose not to write, then it's customary to at least visit them so they know that you did not abandon their daughter and sister when she faced her fellow tributes.

"Pitch, of course, did not explain this to you because he does not like to follow this custom, as he does not follow many customs. I suppose he also didn't tell you about Laurel Shrubsprout, did he? No, of course not. You see, Pitch doesn't exactly have a reputation for being a good mentor, okay?"

Laurel Shrubsprout. The name sounds familiar. After a second, I remember that he was a tribute a few years back. But I really don't know anything other than that.

Lala is watching me with such mock sadness in her eyes that I want to erase her face in a blender. I bite the insides of my cheeks and hold her gaze.

The woman continues, "If I had known that he only helps those who he later wants to—"

"Your time is up, Lala," Pitch says. "Get out of here."

She stands upright and takes a step back from the table. To her, she has won the battle. She has found ways to dig into us, mock us, remind us of the things that keep us awake at night, and try to drive wedges between us. She bats her eyelashes and pats her hair before she gives us a sharkish grin.

"Happy Hunger Games," she says. And then to me, "May the odds be ever in your favor."

I watch her retreating form as she disappears around the corner and into the elevator.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Pitch returns to his seat when the elevator doors finally close. He takes a deep breath and sits quietly. I stare at my arms under the table where I had inadvertently scratched myself so badly that I'm bleeding where one of my fingernails dug into my skin. The blood dribbles down my forearm and onto the leg of my pants.

"Laurel Shrubsprout was—" Pitch begins.

I cut him off. "You don't need to tell me if you don't want to. I know she was just trying to mess us up."

Neither of us speak for a minute. I start to squeeze my arm so the blood trickles out a little faster.

Pitch clears his throat. "I . . . abandoned Laurel," he says.

I look up at him. He who told me that we were our tributes' last hope? I suppress the anger because I know that Lala only dropped that information to get me riled up and angry at Pitch, just like she told me about his many lovers. Anyway, I remember him telling me something to the effect that not all years went as well as others, and not all tributes received the same treatment, though at the time he didn't go into details. I'm curious about it, but I decide that I won't let Lala win.

Standing up, I say, "I need a bandage."

Pitch's eyes land on my bloodied arm. He follows me to the bathroom and insists on cleaning, medicating, and wrapping my cut.

His hands linger on my arm longer than necessary and I feel like he still wants to talk to me and reassure me that he's not as terrible of a person as Lala would insist that he is. But I brush him off and head back to the dining room table and sit down in front of my plate of now room-temperature food.

"Juniper, I want to tell you about Laurel," Pitch says as he sits down across from me. I force-feed myself a bite of food because Dr. Castillo's instructions didn't say that I could get out of eating just because Lala returned. "Hey."

I look up at Pitch. He meets my eyes. "Really. I didn't tell you earlier because I didn't think it had a place in conversation. There's only so much time in the day that I can't just tell you about all of my screw-ups."

"I'm not angry at you," I say. "I'm angry at her. You don't need to tell me about Laurel."

"But I am going to tell you," he says. "I had a breakdown the year I mentored Laurel. I just couldn't handle the stress of mentoring anymore, and I couldn't cope. He was too needy and always wanted me around him, and I just . . . fell apart."

He's holding something back, but I don't ask. He's already told me more than he was required to.

"Laurel died about halfway through, right?" I ask him.

Pitch nods. "Yeah. Made it through the bloodbath on his own and then got killed by a mutt," he says. "I can't help but think that it was my negligence that brought about his death. If I had not been so shitty of a mentor, maybe the Gamemakers wouldn't have triggered that monster."

I remember Laurel now. He was sixteen or seventeen, and everyone in his hometown loved him. His death was a major blow to their community, and they even named a street in his honor.

"But I know," Pitch continues, "that it was just not District 7's year to win anyhow. Bris was mentoring the other one—the girl—and she could easily have been victor. Until she got her arm severed in a Gamemaker event. She recovered well, but was an instant target for the Careers."

"This was the year Gill won?" I ask. That would make it the 137th, the year before Esther's.

"Yes," he says. "From a strictly objective standpoint, Gill wasn't really victor material. It was clearly a set up. I have nothing against Gill, so please don't think I wish him dead, but it was his good looks and charm that resulted in his win. He worked hard, but hard work alone doesn't make a victor."

It was a set-up for District 4. I don't remember thinking of it as such, at least not directly. I would have been fourteen years old at the time, and every inch of the Hunger Games looked pretty messed up to me. I didn't have the keen ability to pick out what was contrived and forced because nothing about any Hunger Games is really natural.

Something sticks out from the back of my brain. Something that Pitch said the other day. "When I woke up from being unconscious or sedated or whatever, and I asked about Rosa, you said that they were giving the tributes a few days for Oceana to heal," I say. "Are you implying that they're doing this again? That they're rigging this for another District 4 victory?"

I study him hard. Please tell me no. Please tell me that there is a chance for Rosa to win. She's a smart kid and can figure out a way to get out of there alive.

"I can't say for certain, but yes, that's what I am implying," he at last concedes. "If it were fair, they wouldn't have allowed so many days' break for them all to heal. Rosa didn't need to heal. Neither did the tribute from District 10, Phil. Nicola was beyond hope because none of her wounds could heal without medical attention. That left only Fjord and Oceana."

"And if they didn't let them heal, either Rosa or Phil would have had a chance," I say.

"In theory," he replies. "Technically either of them could still win, but it's much less likely with both District 4 tributes fully healed."

When you go into the arena, you know that politics play an important role, but you don't really understand the extent to which they manipulate the outcome. You know that people pay money if you do interesting, bold, dangerous, or glamorous things, but there's no way for you to understand the mechanisms of the system. And while you know that no matter how well prepared you are, there's still an element of randomness or chaos that can kill you, you don't consider that maybe, just maybe, the Gamemakers are gunning to take you out of the running merely because of your district number. You think that you have a chance, even if that chance is slim. But ultimately you just have whatever chance the Gamemakers give you.

I don't know what to say, so I fork in the remaining bites of food that are still left on my plate.

"Alright, let's go to bed," Pitch says when I drink the last of my water. He hasn't finished his own meal. I don't comment on it. "Unless you're unnerved by Lala's accusations. Which are not entirely true and also not entirely false."

"I'm over it," I say.

The avox whisks away our food and we go to our rooms to get ready for bed. As I brush my teeth, I try to recall all I can about the 137th Hunger Games. It took place in a shopping mall, of all things, and there were some pretty dumb muttations and events. I'm selfishly glad that I wasn't here at that time because I'm sure that the Capitol citizens were going wild and crazy and decorating their own malls in theme. We never would have heard the end of it.

At last I crawl into bed with Pitch. The pain medication sometimes makes me forget that my ribs are broken, but then sudden pain shoots across me when I move wrong or try to take too deep of a breath. Pitch is probably more careful of this than I am and never touches where I'm injured as he wraps an arm around me. We drift off to sleep.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Day 12. I sit in front of my computer and stare at the screen absently. The tributes are meandering around a little. Phil has dared to leave his treehouse and has been pacing around the wooden walkways. If nobody does anything, the Gamemakers will soon drive them all together.

My side aches from sitting up for so long, and my mind drifts and bounces as I recall one conversation after another that has taken place over the past few days. It's hard to focus on the tributes, especially when they keep to themselves. The District 4 tributes have split apart, and I figure that they've finally embraced the inevitable. I'm just about to go lie down on the couch because I don't think I can sit upright anymore when I see the D4F and D4M flags closing in on D7F, one on each side as they pin the District 7 tribute in between them.

They haven't separated; they have decided to address the issue with the slippery tribute in a rather smart manner. Smart, of course, if that D7F wasn't my own tribute.

"C'mon, Rosa, you can do it," I whisper as I settle back into my seat. Leaning closer to the monitor, I watch as she walks quietly along the walkway, seemingly oblivious to the Careers. She picks her steps carefully, being as silent as she can. I wish I could yell at her to pay attention to her surroundings because the Careers are almost on her.

My breathing quickens. I ignore the searing pain in my side. Pain means nothing right now.

The District 4 male appears in front of her. She looks up, and in that one moment, I can see a gleam in her eyes. She has something planned. Holy shit, I missed whatever trap she has contrived, but she has something planned!

Fjord runs straight for her. Rosa turns on her heal and runs the way she came. Her footsteps are slower than I'd expect and then I realize that she's careful where she places each boot. Each step is in a precise place, but she's moving quickly enough that it's hard to follow her motions, especially at the distance Fjord is from her. The walkway is covered in oil—a long-forgotten item she picked up from the Cornucopia during the bloodbath.

And Fjord runs after her without regard and steps right into the oil. His feet slip out from under him and he begins to topple backwards. His arms flail as he tries to regain his balance, and then he falls right over the side of the walkway.

The cannon doesn't fire, however, because he has managed to grab onto the edge of the walkway. His fingers cling to the board and slowly he begins to pull himself up. Rosa doesn't see this; she just runs. Maybe she's wondering why she doesn't hear the cannon or maybe she knows that she can't go back to investigate. Her trap has failed, or at least it hasn't worked yet. She had it all planned out so well, but she hadn't planned for Fjord to be able to catch himself before he went over.

And she also didn't plan to run right into Oceana.

The sword goes straight into Rosa's chest.

The world freezes as though someone pushed "stop" on the recording, but I feel my pounding heart beat less frequently and I know that time has only slowed down for me as I watch Rosa, eyes wide and mouth agape, stare at Oceana.

Rosa, the little girl I mentored.

Rosa, who was far too manipulative for any twelve year old but still wooed everyone with her charm.

Rosa, who could very well have been the victor.

And then I watch as Rosa collapses onto the wooden walkway, the sword sticking from her chest. Her body spasms and blood dribbles from her opened mouth. Her eyes are still fixed on Oceana. It's not surprise or contempt or anger or any other of such reasonable emotions that's on her face. It's respect. And that expression is mirrored back on Oceana's own face for the briefest of seconds before the cannon booms. And then Oceana's mouth turns down and I see the sadness in her eyes.

My monitoring device has been vibrating wildly on my wrist, but I hadn't felt it until it stopped, leaving my wrist tender and my insides hollow. And then the entire world rushes back to normal speed, leaving me stuck in a reality that I cannot escape. The word "DECEASED" is plastered on my screen, and there is no going back.

Unable to move, I watch as Oceana leans over and closes Rosa's eyes before she removes the sword from her chest. And then, in a moment of, well, I don't know, the District 4 tribute heaves the sword over the side of the walkway and into the fog below.

"What was that about?" Fjord asks as he approaches his district partner and stares in the direction Oceana had thrown the sword. He's rubbing his arm tenderly.

Oceana looks at Fjord and says simply, "Told you. I don't like close combat."

Then she turns on her heel and walks away from Rosa's body and the pool of blood that is ever growing and dripping down through the spaces in the wooden boards. Fjord glances momentarily at Rosa and then follows after his district partner.

I watch as they walk away side-by-side until they are no longer visible from this camera angle.

Rosa.

How? Why?

The emotions are welling up inside me. All those emotions I know I'm supposed to contain.

I try to take a deep breath, but the pain splits through my side and I cry out. And with that one cry, I jump up and grab at my monitoring device, fumbling wildly to pry it off my wrist. It won't come off. My fingers are shaking too hard and I'm too upset to focus, but the longer it takes me the more desperate I become to get it off my body. Giving up, I raise up the monitoring device and bash it into the computer screen. Again and again and again until my computer is shattered and there's glass and plastic and twisted metal everywhere and I'm bleeding again and there's nothing I can do to stop myself from taking out my anger and hatred and pain on this damned computer and the fucking monitoring device that won't come off my wrist no matter how much I try.

There are hands on me, and Lady is snapping the device off my wrist.

"I'm fine," I rip my hand away from her. She backs up.

But the district four mentors are then wrapping my arm up in paper towels they gathered from the lounge, holding it in place to stop the blood flow. And then they sit me down, and I recognize one of the mentors as Gill Tide—we'd been introduced my first day here. He's been sitting in the room with me for over two weeks now, has attended interviews and parties with me, and I've barely given him a second thought. Now I can't unsee the fact that Pitch told me that he wasn't supposed to win and that the Gamemakers had killed off the District 7 tributes because they were too strong. And I'm angry at Gill now because of who he is and no other reason which is entirely not fair. But I'm not thinking logically.

I'm lightheaded, and the anger begins to subside as emptiness threatens to consume me. The rage with which I destroyed the computer station drains away. I'm still angry. It's just that . . . I'm so confused. Lost.

I lean over and puke on the carpet. When I sit back upright and wipe my mouth on my sleeve, I have to fight to keep my world from spinning. Gill has his hand on my shoulder.

I clamp down the paper towels that are covering the wound. Lady returns with actual towels which she wraps over the paper and ties in place.

"Want me to get Pitch for you?" she asks.

"No," I mutter. I can't rely on Pitch all the time. This is my problem to deal with. Rosa was my tribute. And now she's dead.

He told me.

They all told me.

I had hoped despite the warnings that maybe, just maybe, Rosa would live.

And I think about her small frame pinned with a sword like she's a butterfly pinned to the display case.

I stand up and nearly topple over. There are hands on me, and when they steady me, I move away from them towards the door. When I reach it, however, I hesitate and look back.

My computer station is a wreck. It'll never be used again. Blood is splattered across its battered remains and there are flecks on the wall. But the mentoring station will just be replaced. Like Rosa. She will be replaced, too. There will always be another tribute.

The three other mentors are staring at me. My mind is hazy and my vision blurry. I can't tell what they want from me. But I do know that they all rushed over to help me even though they had no reason to do it.

"Thank you," I manage before I open the door and leave.

~.~

Rosa.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Pitch meets me in the hallway on the way to the elevator. I collapse into his arms. He supports me as we stagger back to the District 7 apartments. Once safely inside, he takes me directly to my bedroom.

"Take a shower, Juniper," he says calmly. I look longingly at my bed. His hand goes to my cheek and he strokes it gently. "I know. But you need to take a shower because we have to leave the apartment now."

Now?! Right now?

There's a faint flicker of anger that threatens to rise but it's suppressed by the void that has taken up residence within me.

I stagger off to the bathroom and take a long, hot shower. I don't know what to think. What to do. How to handle anything.

When I leave the shower and dry off, I find that I never took off the towel from my arm and I'm bleeding everywhere again. Wrapping the bath towel around myself, I stagger into my bedroom. Pitch is there packing up my things.

"I've set out some clothes there, on your bed," he says as he nods towards a pair of pants and a shirt at the foot of the comforter. Then he sees the blood on the damp towels and he leads me to the chair in my room and sits me down and gives me a fresh towel. "Hang on, I called Dr. Castillo while you were in the shower; she'll be here any minute. In the meantime, sit here and apply pressure."

Then he goes back to packing.

I don't have the words to ask him what's going on or why we have to leave so urgently. Rosa just died. Am I not allowed to mourn her loss? Is Pitch of all people denying me this one thing?

Dr. Castillo arrives within a few minutes and Pitch ushers her into the room. She reviews my arm and immediately unwraps the haphazard and soaking wet towels, the fresh towel Pitch gave me fallen and forgotten on the floor. I zone out as she cleans it and sutures it and wraps it back up to keep it clean. She gives me instructions but I only see her mouth moving as none of the words are making it into my brain. After a moment, she turns to Pitch and says something. Then she turns to me and checks my eyes, listens to my chest, takes my blood pressure, and assesses my temperature. She gives me a shot and tells me to swallow some pills with a glass of water she provides. I do as instructed.

For a few minutes, Dr. Castillo and Pitch talk. They seem to be disagreeing about something. Arguing? I'm not certain. Can't hear them. Don't want to hear them.

Rosa.

Rosa, can you hear me? I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't save you.

"Juniper, you need to listen to me," Pitch says.

I look up at him and blink. He crouches down in front of me. Where's Dr. Castillo? Did she already leave?

"I know you're upset. No, no. More than upset. I know. And I'm not trying to minimize your pain, you know that," he says. "But when Lala says that we need to clear out of here as soon as Rosa's dead, she means it. We have to go. An avox will bring our stuff later, okay?"

I blink again.

Pitch heaves me to my feet. "We are about to go out where there will likely be crowds of people, Juniper," he says with a twinge of desperation. "You need to gather your wits. You can mourn later. I'm so sorry."

When I just stand there blankly, he draws me into a hug. His warmth surrounds me, and the tight hold squeezes me a little too much. But it pulls me back to the present enough that I feel the carpet underneath my feet and the towel wrapped around my body and Pitch's breath on the top of my head. The medications that Dr. Castillo gave me have dulled the pain in my arm and in my broken ribs. I no longer feel nauseous. I take as deep of a breath as I dare.

"Okay," I say.

Pitch releases me. "I trust you can dress on your own."

"Of course," I say, my cheeks flushing.

He leaves me to get dressed. It takes me longer than normal. I nearly fall down when I try to put on my underwear and pants, and I almost give up on trying to clasp my bra. But in the end I manage to compose myself as best as I can. I even add the smallest bit of makeup to my face to give the illusion that I am put together. Knowing that we are under a time constraint, however, I don't dawdle longer than I need. I put on my boots, grab a couple of books, and head to the elevator.

Once in the lobby, my body tenses. There are people outside—many of them by the sound of it. Crowds? I'm not certain. But it's going to be rough getting out of here without being pinned down by eager fans. We aren't alone in the lobby, either. Lala is walking towards us with a couple of reporters.

"Oh, you guys are leaving so soon?" she asks with what appears to be genuine surprise. "We were just going upstairs. I thought it would be most suiting for my interview to be in the District 7 apartment."

"Have at it," Pitch replies as he half drags me away. We're heading down another hallway—not daring to go out the front doors—when I realize what just happened.

"She had timed an interview in our apartment for when Rosa died?" I asked him.

"Most likely hoping that she would catch us there, too," he grumbles. "I figured she had something up her sleeve, but I wasn't sure what. Nothing like interviewing a grieving victor. Most reporters prefer to give us some space because if they piss us off, it's harder to interview us in the future, but they would have loved the opportunity if it presented itself."

Sick. Twisted. I hate that woman. Hate her with everything in me.

Which, right now, isn't a whole lot.

If it was—if the void wasn't threatening to take over—I would have possibly flipped out on her.

I guess it's a good thing I'm empty.

Pitch hesitates at the exit and looks around. There are some people milling about outside, but since this door isn't used too much, no one is really on the lookout for escapee Victors trying to find sanctuary amidst tragedy.

"Hold my hand," he instructs me. "We're going to walk as swiftly as we can while still trying to look normal."

My hand finds his, and he leads me out the door.

The warm summer sun hits me first. It's been days—many days—since I last felt sunlight. I've been cooped up in the training center for so long that I almost forgot that there was a world around me separate from the events within the arena. My hand is sweaty in Pitch's. We walk quickly across the courtyard until we get to a street. Pitch hails a cab, and a minute later, we're inside.

"Hello, District 7," says the cabbie. "Sorry about your tributes. Where are you heading to?"

Pitch gives him the address. Are we going to his place? I watch the city streets pass us by. Some have already changed their decorations to show that there are only three tributes left—and Rosa isn't one of them. While I'm miffed that they are so quick to remove Rosa's memory, I'm also appreciative that I don't have to stare at her face and remember that only hours ago, she was alive and well. But there are still plenty of places that are showing her picture front and center as the most recent casualty within the arena. It's too much. I lean my head back, close my eyes, and wait for the car to come to a stop.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

"Isolde's place," Pitch explains to me as we stand on the front step. It's not what I expected for a Career victor. Instead of some great, attention-grabbing high rise, it's a quaint little three-story townhouse bordering on the edge of the suburban section. There are flowers in the yard, and the hedges are trimmed nicely. Curtains hang in the window and I see what appears to be a cat perched up in the second story balcony. But when I strain my eyes to see, I realize that it's only a small statue.

The door opens, and Isolde is standing there in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. She moves aside and motions us in.

"C'mon, guys," she says. Then she closes the door promptly behind us. "We're just about to make a late lunch. Or early dinner, whatever you want to call it."

We?

She leads us down a hallway past several rooms and into the kitchen at the back of the house. Esther and Hammer are standing at the counter, both wearing matching aprons, and arguing over which recipe they're actually making.

"Settle down. We're making a soufflé," Isolde tells them as she walks in.

Both Esther and Hammer turn when she speaks and they don't look too surprised to see myself and Pitch.

"Sorry to hear about Rosa, guys," Esther says.

Hammed nods. "She was a tough kid. Would have been badass to try to keep her from taking over the world if she had won."

"I would have let her," says Isolde. "But anyway, we are making a meal, as I said, and you are welcome to join us. I don't have any more aprons, though."

I glance at Pitch. He nudges me forward, just like he used to do when I was a new victor and he had to get me to keep on moving forward with life. I shuffle into the kitchen, wash my hands, and then await further instructions.

Pitch sits at the counter watching us as Isolde tries to order us about. It's clear that none of us are master chefs, and our abilities in the kitchen are only a touch more sophisticated than being able to boil water. Once the soufflé is underway, she shows us how to make a few side dishes to go with it. We make roasted asparagus, apple and walnut salad, and toasted rosemary bread. My movements are slow and lethargic, and I'm more of a hindrance in the kitchen than a help, but nobody makes me feel that way. Between Isolde's instructions, trying to navigate the crowded kitchen, and focusing heavily on making sure that everything gets done right, I forget for the briefest moment about Rosa and the Hunger Games.

And when it comes back, it's in a giant wave of pain and guilt. Guilt because I dared to forget about her suffering for even the shortest period of time. Because I was almost enjoying myself as the four of us worked together to prepare a passable meal.

The others find me standing in a corner crying. Esther leads me to the table and all of us, including Pitch, sit down for dinner.

Isolde leads us in a toast. "To our tributes," she says. "May they be happier in death than we are in life."

And everyone clicks their glasses against each other's and agrees.

I'm sure the soufflé tastes great but to me it's a touch too salty.

"Juniper, you're going to stay here til you find your own place," Isolde tells me as we're eating. I don't respond but I also don't really have any issues with that. At least here the chances of Lala walking in are much, much less. "We'll hit up the real estate agent tomorrow."

Tomorrow? I frown.

"Remember what we said? You promised that you'd let us help you look for a house, even if you don't feel like it," Esther reminds me.

Does it even matter now? Can I go back to District 7 right this moment? But even the thought of going home pains me because it was my job—my one job—to bring my tribute back alive. And I failed. I know logically that no matter how it unfolded, twenty-three of us would fail this year just like every other year. But . . . it's different to say that twenty-three will die than it is to say that my one tribute who has a name, a face, a personality, and a life will die. How can I return to District 7 knowing that I didn't keep her safe? How can I possibly go about my life knowing that there's a family out there who is mourning their daughter who I couldn't save?

My chest aches. I'm shaking. I can't finish my food.

Esther volunteers to clean the dishes, and Hammer heads off to help her. Pitch stays by my side and Isolde watches me from across the table.

"I have a room for screaming in here, too," she says to me. "Second floor. It used to be a closet. If you feel like you need it at any time, please feel free to use it."

I only stare at my placemat through tear-filled eyes. The crisscross lines of the woven pattern blur together.

"I'm sorry I had to get you out of the apartment quickly," Pitch says. "Normally we're not rushed out quite so fast. They give us time to put ourselves together."

"They acknowledge that the loss hurts but we're not allowed to show it in public," Isolde agrees. She leans back in her chair and braids her hair as she watches me.

How can they say all this? They just lost their own tributes less than a week ago, and they appear to be back to normal. It seems completely disrespectful to be going about their regular lives and thinking about apartment shopping when their tributes aren't even in the ground yet.

"I'm tired," I say at last. "Can I go to bed?"

"It's not even 4:00 PM," Pitch says. "I am going to sound like a heartless bastard about this and there's no good way to phrase this, but when we lose a tribute, we have to keep on a normal schedule as much as possible. We don't get to grieve like other people. We have to be ready to step into the spotlight whenever they decide to interview us. Which, fortunately, will not be for a couple days. But if your sleep schedule gets totally messed up, it'll take too long to correct it."

What if I just sleep and sleep and sleep without regard to the time of day or even how long I've been sleeping?

I wipe my eyes with my napkin.

"Everybody told me not to get attached," I mumble.

Isolde shakes her head. "It's going to hurt regardless of whether you get attached to your tribute or not. I didn't even like my tribute and I was so upset for days that I didn't set foot outdoors."

"It's hard not to get attached to Rosa," Pitch says. I glance at his expression. He's torn up, too. In my grief, I failed to see that Rosa's death caused him pain. He was so busy tending to me that he likely didn't have a moment to let it sink in, and now that we're finished with dinner and things have settled down, it's finally taken root inside of him. He has to pause to wipe his eyes with his napkin, too.

Even Isolde's eyes are shiny. But she's either more stoic or less attached, either of which would make sense. Rosa was my tribute. Our tribute, I think, as I remember that Pitch hasn't left my side.

"We do this every year, huh?" I ask at last.

"Over and over," Isolde confirms. "Though both District 1 and District 7 have enough people that you can take breaks every now and again. Some districts. . . ." Her eyes flick towards the kitchen where Esther is drying the dishes.

Esther of District 8 is pretty much on her own. Unlike myself and Pitch or Isolde and Hammer, she doesn't have people who can substitute for them. Liberty, Bris, Vesa, Pitch, Elm, myself . . . there are many of us who are capable of mentoring, even if this year some people are ill or tired or giving birth to children. Next year, the situation may be different and I may not have to mentor. But Esther always will.

"But it doesn't matter in some ways," Pitch says. "You'll always remember the kids you mentored and lost. Doesn't matter if it was one or two or twenty. There are some that stand out and others that kind of melt together, but overall, their deaths are forever burned into you."

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Pitch and I sit on the back porch in the evening twilight. A long, narrow yard stretches before us, bordered on three sides by eight-foot-tall wooden fences. The yard itself is mostly lawn with small stepping stones leading back to a zen garden and a bubbling fountain. In the far corner is a chicken coop around which half a dozen chickens had been pecking and gobbling until Isolde had locked them away for the night.

"Isolde's going to help keep you on a schedule," Pitch tells me as we sit on the back steps. I look at the scuffs on the toes of my boots absently. "She'll give you time and space, but she'll help you stay on track."

"You talk like you're not going to be here," I say.

He leans against the wooden pillar that supports the wooden overhang above our heads. "Not all the time. Tonight I have another, ah, appointment, and tomorrow I have to go get my own living space sorted out."

I jerk my attention to him when he so casually slips in the appointment.

"Is it the lady that Lala was talking about?" I ask.

"Yes," Pitch says.

We have been keeping our voices low so that nobody in neighboring yards can hear us, but now I don't even want the other victors to listen in.

I draw in a breath. "Is it because of me? Because I pissed off Lala?"

"Nope," he says.

"Yeah, because I punched her and she was looking for ways to get back at us."

"You punched her, sure. But in reality, it was really . . . the fact that Rosa died that triggered this. I get left alone when my tribute is still alive because it's understood that I need to concentrate on that. And since people believe that you and I are in a relationship and that we're working together for our tributes, in a way Rosa was my tribute as well."

I don't reply.

"Normally I would have a day or two off afterwards, but Lala made sure that didn't happen."

So it is my fault. I look up at him. He's studying me carefully.

"You're talking about this like it's another 9-5 job," I mutter.

He shrugs. Like it's no big deal.

"This happens every time you come to the Capitol?" I ask.

"Not every time," he says. "Normally only when there are enthusiastic patrons who can't seem to leave me alone."

"And all this for Green? He's dead now, so why does it matter?"

He shifts and looks a little uncomfortable. "It's not for Green."

"So who—or what—is it for?" I'm prying too much, but I need to know. For what reason does Pitch need to be subjected to this?

"Various things." Too vague. I stare hard at him, and he stares back. I'm not going to get an answer.

"Alright, fine. Whatever." I look back across the yard and towards the chicken coop where the little animals are all tucked in for the night. Every once in awhile I can hear a squawk drift over our direction, but it's a quiet noise, like they're mumbling in their sleep. "At least—are you coming back tonight?"

Pitch doesn't respond for a moment. "I can, if you want me to."

"I want you to."

"Alright," he says.

We sit in silence for a few minutes. I long for the solitude of District 7 where one can have a yard and chickens and not worry about the various buildings towering over your own little personal space. The ever glowing lights of the Capitol become quickly tedious when you're here; what once started as something to be awed—buildings taller than the tallest tree you've ever seen—becomes trashy and repetitive. But when we get back to District 7, things will be different. The relationship Pitch and I have is vastly different from what we had when we left, and I don't mean the fake romantic one. The way I view the world will be different, too, like when I came back the first time; only now, I'll have the burden of not just the people I killed but of those I failed to save.

Rosa.

"They really don't give us time to mourn, do they?" I ask. "You have to go off and have sex with some powerful woman against your will, and I have to go buy a house like life is just perfectly normal."

"No, they don't. We end up having to find other ways to mourn."

Elijah told me that the Capitol liked to torture us to keep us in control, but I don't know what exactly they think we would be doing otherwise. Having two dozen chickens in our yards instead of 6? I rest my head on the railing of the step and close my eyes.

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Isolde's house is a nice. One of the homiest sort of places I've seen in the Capitol yet. There are five bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, and a sixth bathroom on the ground floor. On the roof is a balcony on which you can look out at the neighborhood.

The bedroom she gives me is on the second floor with a view of the backyard. It's a small room, but clean and pleasant. The white furniture is made out of real wood, and the thick quilt on the bed might even be handmade. Checkered curtains hang in the windows.

It's late. I've finished my book after having easily picked it back up despite not reading for many days. Now it's time to transition to another book, but I find myself stuck. Our belongings arrived as Pitch had said, but despite the ridiculous number of books I have, not a single one sounds good. The relief I had from burying myself in a faraway story starts to wear off as I stare at ceiling fan. There's another wave of guilt at the fact that I had once again forgotten Rosa, this time for much longer as I read about fictional people in fictional crises that were resolved in a pleasant, but fictional, manner. Rosa was real. Is real. Because even though she is not with us, she still exists both in corporeal terms and in memory. What are they doing to her now? Do they sew up the bodies before they send them back to the districts? Do they gather all of the fallen tributes into the cold, cold depths of the morgue and release them all at once, or does each tribute get returned as he or she dies?

I sit up and wipe the tears from my cheeks. I won't be reading anymore tonight. I wish Pitch were here with me, and it's with a lurch in my gut that I remember that he isn't here because he's providing entertainment for someone against his will, and it's my fault that he's being forced back into it so soon after Rosa died.

Shuffling out of the room, I pause at the top of the stairs. There's a television on downstairs, the volume low. A faint flickering glow meets me as I head into the living room. Isolde sits on the couch, illuminated by the television's light. She has her arms wrapped around her chest, but then I see that she's really holding something against her body. The television is showing a recap of the day's events in the Hunger Games.

Rosa. They're showing her alive and running. And then they show her dead. Then they show the District 10 male, Phil, trying to shake acorns out of trees because he's on the last of his food. And then the District 4 tributes discussing something.

"How can you watch this?" I demand.

Isolde turns around sharply and blinks at me for a second as her eyes get used to the darkness.

"Oh. Hey, Juniper," she says.

"You didn't answer my question."

She studies me for a moment. "Because we have to know. C'mon, sit."

At first I consider going upstairs and packing my things. I don't know where I'd go, but it would be far away from this crazy Career victor who is willingly watching recaps of a child get murdered on national television. But then I notice that the object she is holding in her arms against her body is a ragged and worn stuffed cat. And I see in that moment how strangely human Isolde is despite coming from such a different background. So I shuffle around the side of the couch and sit down at the other end.

"We're still expected to keep up with the Hunger Games even after our tributes die," she explains softly, her eyes still on the TV where they're advertising some kind of tooth-whitening product. "And we'll get interviewed about the Hunger Games, how our tribute performed before they were killed, what we think about the remaining tributes or whoever is made victor, etc. Pitch managed to postpone your interviews. They try to interview you the next day—sometimes even the same day—but he told everyone that you'd come down with a stomach bug again."

"They believe that?" I ask.

"I guess there's a doctor willing to confirm it."

Dr. Castillo. Why on earth would she be willing to put her medical license on the line for that sort of lie? Is that something that they normally do in the Capitol? Then again, I don't think that doctors are supposed to be disclosing their patients' care to begin with, so maybe all the rules are different here than they are in District 7.

We watch a report about the weather. Sunny skies for tomorrow. Beautiful day for a picnic, they say. But maybe it would be more appropriate to be in an outdoor restaurant or café where you still have access to the latest Hunger Games coverage, they also say.

"It'll end soon," Isolde says. "There's only three tributes left and they've already let the Hunger Games go on long enough."

I don't want Oceana to win because she killed Rosa, and I can't possibly think of being in the same room as her for future events and mentoring. Same with Phil—he killed Green.

"Isolde . . . did you ever, well, hate me because I killed your tribute?" I ask.

"Hmm? Oh, Susannah? Yeah, she was a good one. But no, I didn't hate you," she answers.

"How could you not?"

She gives her stuffed cat a light squeeze. "There's not enough room to hate people because of who they killed in the Hunger Games, you know? We know going in that only one can live, so chances are the person who wins will have killed at least one person. If we all avoided other victors based on the fact that they had killed our tribute, we'd be avoiding everyone."

I don't think I could forgive Oceana. She was trained for this. It was her goal to mow down as many people as she possibly could.

And then I think of the look in her eyes when Rosa died.

Respect.

Sadness.

And Isolde . . . she's been nothing but kind to me since I arrived, even if she was a bit intimidating and bossy. She didn't fit the mold of a ruthless Career. As I sit there and watch her hug that stupid stuffed cat, I understand that she is more than a trained killer. She's a person.

"What made you volunteer?" I ask her.

"Hmm?"

"Why did you volunteer for the Hunger Games?"

Her eyes flicker away from the television and towards me. "I was young and stupid," she says. "I was so impressionable that I actually believed what they told me, that volunteering was the most important thing we could do after our years of training. I was so wrong."

She pauses for a second, and then looks at me.

"What made you?" she asks. "Why did you volunteer?"

I take a deep breath and stare at the glowing television screen again. "Because I hate them."

~.~.~


~.~.~

CHAPTER SIXTY

It's damned hot for the reaping, but we're all shoved into the district square anyhow, the smell of sweat and anxiety absolutely inescapable. I'm one of the ones who is herded into the main crowd. Many more people, particularly the younger ones who are less likely to get chosen, are corralled in the overflow areas. There are thousands and thousands of kids here, and the likelihood of being chosen is so low that they need to make sure that us older ones are within reach since we have our names in the jar considerably more. But even with our names in ten, twenty, fifty times, it's very unlikely that any single one of us will be chosen.

From where I am about two thirds of the way back, I can barely see the stage. However, there are plenty of screens around the square for us to get a better look at the mayor and our assortment of victors. There are lots of victors here. Liberty, Bris, Vesa, Pitch, Elm. We learn all their names in school and we're told how they are the pinnacle of our district. None of us really care about that, though; we aren't dumb enough to be lured in by the wealth and status of the victors. Maybe it was more enticing a hundred years ago when poverty was rampant, but since our generation has been very well fed and well educated, none of us have any desire to risk death for a special place on the stage.

By my side, however, my friend Oren clings to my arm and goes on about how dreamy Elm is. I shoot her a look to get her to shut up. Her name is in there considerably less than most people's since her family is far more well-to-do than average, but I know that she's just trying to block out the fear that's eating at her. I just wish she wouldn't; other people wouldn't be able to see how her mouth rattled along because of her nerves and not because of a blatant disrespect. If I didn't know her, I certainly wouldn't.

The mayor gives a brief speech, as usual, but the treaty of treason itself goes on for too long. They talk about how we're paying for a crime that our ancestors committed. They talk about what an honor it is to be chosen. How each district sends two representatives to compete against man and nature in the hopes that, out of all twenty-four tributes, one of them will be victorious. This victor will bring honor and wealth to his or her district as a reminder of the Capitol's forgiveness for past crimes. It's so asinine that it makes me want to puke. They can talk about all the honor and glory that they want, but it's really just a giant pageant for the citizens of the Capitol to watch and waste money on. There's nothing honorable about that.

I zone out a bit during the mayor's speech—as usual—and only start paying attention when Lala teeters up to the bowl. She looks so damn ridiculous in her vibrant hues and enormous cape that juts out to the side of her body.

My heartbeat quickens. I clench Oren's arm.

"Our female tribute for the 140th Annual Hunger Games is . . . Willow Elowen!"

Around me, hundreds of girls exhale in relief since it is not them, but . . . I know that name. I don't know the girl, per se, but I know the name. Oren and I exchange glances.

Willow is a year ahead of us in school, but she is one of the most genuinely well-liked people I've ever known. She doesn't make herself out to be something she's not, she doesn't vie for popularity or anything like that. I've never met her, but I have seen her in passing. She's the sort of person about whom bad rumors don't exist.

That, of course, is not enough to save her from the Hunger Games. Nobody is going to dismiss her because she's nice. There's not going to be a single volunteer to keep her out of the arena just because she'll take notes for someone who missed class or help someone who forgot about a presentation due today. Nice people don't get a pass. If she makes it, she makes it, just like the rest of us average kids.

But the thing that makes her stand out the most—the thing that causes people to gasp when she approaches the stage—is that she is in a wheelchair pushed by her older sister.

Because Willow Elowen has been crippled since she was born. And we all know that she has no chance, not one single chance, once that gong goes off and the Games begin. They will not cure her, they will not repair her and take the time to teach her to walk, and they most certainly will not give her a wheelchair in the arena.

And then something within me snaps.

There is no honor in choosing a crippled girl. She is not a representative of our district who will battle "man and nature"—she will get murdered within five seconds. The citizens of the Capitol will bet against her and make money and benefit from the inevitable and brutal death of one of the kindest people who was ever reaped. This is not a reminder of past crimes but a mockery of our lives. Claiming otherwise is deplorable.

I think of the girls around me, who cowered and trembled as the escort's name went into the bowl.

I think of the parents and siblings who cry because their loved ones are killed in the arena.

I think of Willow Elowen whose death will be not for heroic purposes, as the Capitol claims, but for people to laugh at.

The Hunger Games are not fair. Nobody said they were. But I am going to do my damnedest to MAKE them fair.

They've already picked a male tribute—Lief Johnson—when I find my way through the crowd. I almost feel like I am not in control of my movements as I elbow and shoulder and fight to get to the front. I don't care who gets hurt or who I push down. As I reach the stage, I see that Willow has her head held high and though her eyes glisten with tears, there isn't a single one rolling down her cheek.

"Get off the stage, Elowen," I say to her.

She looks at me, confused, and then up to her sister who still stands behind her.

I heave myself onto the platform and walk over to her. "Go," I order.

"Well, what is this?" Lala asks.

"Your female tribute," I respond sharply. Willow and her sister get the message and hurry to get off stage. I watch them go, and as I am about to turn around and face the crowds of confused and inquisitive onlookers, I catch a glimpse of a victor staring curiously at me, his blue-grey eyes studying me. I turn my back to him and take my place next to Lief.

My parents are devastated, of course. They openly cry and tell me how much they love me. But both of them say how proud they are of me, and how no matter what happens—no matter what I have to do in the arena—they will always know that I am a compassionate person. My behavior today doesn't horrify them or make them hate me, they tell me; it is merely a testament to what a good person I am. I wait until they leave before I start crying.

Willow Elowen and her sister come to say goodbye. Tears flow freely down both of their faces. "I can never tell you how grateful I am," Willow says. "To know that there is someone who cares so much about me that she's willing to sacrifice herself for my sake." I don't tell them that it's not entirely about Willow because some part of me isn't entirely certain why I stood up when I did. Plenty of kids with disabilities have been sent to the arena—though perhaps none as notable as Willow's. A bad leg, deafness, things that don't mean they'll die right away but pretty much count them out. I'm not a hero or a godsend or whatever other term people are inclined to use. I'm just here. So instead of saying anything, I let her and her sister hug me and tell me that they will be waiting for me when I return.

I'm terrified of what is to come. I'm regretting what I did. But I know that, given the chance, I'd do it all over again.

When we get on the train, the youngest two victors are waiting there to be our mentors. They don't even give us a chance or say hello. Pitch chooses me. Elm looks surprised, but shrugs and introduces himself to Lief.

People ask me why I volunteered. I deny it, and I tell them that I didn't. I was reaped. I never once uttered the words "I volunteer," did I? I just went up, took my spot, and said that I was the tribute. There was nothing glamorous or glorious about it. It just happened. They stop asking about why I volunteered. And I am fine with that.

Because until now, I've never had an answer for the question.

Until Isolde asked me, I have never even tried to explain it.

I volunteered because I hate the Capitol and all the things they've done to us.

I volunteered because Willow Elowen had no chance to win.

And aren't we all supposed to have a chance? Aren't we all supposed to represent our districts and have the opportunity to return victorious? Or has what they told us in school since we were small children been nothing but a lie?

Of course it's a lie. It has always been a lie, and we know it.

To hell with it all.

I have a chance to win. I won't get mowed down in the bloodbath because I can't escape. I have hope.

Now so, too, does Willow Elowen.

~.~

I lay in bed and stare up at the ceiling. I volunteered. Like Isolde. Like Hammer. Like Gill and Fjord and Oceana and Joy. But unlike them, I didn't do it for honor or glory or because I felt like I was supposed to. I did it because I had a fire within my chest that suddenly burst free.

That fire did not die. It will not die. It has transformed, maybe, and been replaced by a hatred towards the men and women who perpetuate the Hunger Games. But it's still sizzling within me, wondering why it has been so long abandoned.

And I think of the courage with which I made my decision and walked up to the stage. I think of how I nearly shoved Willow and her sister straight off the side into the crowd to get them to move away. That is me.

And where did it all go, the passion and confidence?

It was stolen. Stolen by the Capitol.

I want it back.

~.~

Pitch returns near dawn and staggers into the bedroom. He quietly closes the door. My eyelids close as I hear him creep to the bed. He takes off his shoes and removes his outer clothes before crawling into bed next to me. I curl into him and listen to his breathing slow as he falls asleep.