I get the idea that the adults must be talking about which kid to vote for because there's a lot more whispering going on between Dad and visitors and a lot of times when he simply isn't there. Asking Mom results only in a vague, "He's busy."

A couple of times I wake in the middle of the night to hear Mom and Dad talking about something heatedly, but the words don't reach my brain and they always subside by the time I am awake enough to hear it.

The Reaping is strange process, different from any other year. At the crack of dawn, all of the kids are checked in, roped off into their own separate sections. I stand beside Kit silently. I swear this is the only day of the year where he has no smart comment to add to the situation at hand.

The adults line up in front of the Justice Building to vote, men on our side and women over on the girls' side. I can't really see how the voting works but it seems to be done electronically which is only confirmed by the presence of two extra people from the Capitol, one circling the males and the other the females who hold some sort of electronic device in their hands which they consult often. Every once and a while after doing this, they tap a child on their shoulder and whisper something into their ear resulting in the child leaving their section and going into the ecstatic arms of their parents.

The message is clear then. Whoever is tapped on the shoulder has not received enough votes to conceivably be a tribute.

My shoulders become taught, awaiting the tap that means my freedom but the voting is such an arduously slow process. I suspect they made it so for the viewers in the Capitol so that they can all watch and wonder and agonize over which child is going to be picked and why.

I place my hand on my shirt, right overtop of where I keep the mockingjay pin, like I do when they read the Treaty of Treason or when they pick the names on a usual Reaping, to remind myself, even if only I know, that I do not condone what is happening, even if I am entertained by it.

My mind wanders. I think about supper. I think about Yondrie. I think about how I would knot up a trap. Over and over and over.

The first section to be emptied out on either side is the twelve-year-olds, thankfully, and follows upwards mostly by age, though there are exceptions. Milo Simmons, who is eighteen, is one of the first to be dismissed from our section since everyone knows that he has the mind of a small child. Rict Porter, on the other hand, who is just barely fourteen, is the only one still standing in his row since most people have heard and seen the violence he perpetuates against others without remorse.

People are voting to kill off their tribute. Just the thought is too disturbing to contemplate and I try to shove it back to a place where I will never find it again.

About halfway through the proceedings I see Yondrie getting tapped on the shoulder and breathe a huge sigh of relief. She and I exchange a glance and she smiles encouragingly at me. If she's off the list, I most likely will be soon too.

When I see the Capitol woman for the boys' section coming down our row, I think that this is it, this is when I finally get to leave and not think about this any longer. But she taps Kit on the shoulder and moves on without another thought. Kit shoots me a sympathetic glance but quickly scampers off to the side, leaving me alone.

A small glance around tells me that both sections have emptied far more than I first realized. The large majority of people left in either section are either seventeen or eighteen.

For the first time it comes to me that my name was one of those tossed around by the adults for voting. Most likely more than once. And most likely the reason Mom and Dad were arguing.

I didn't know this many people knew who I was, much less wanted me dead. I am mostly known by those who either frequent the Hob or know my father from the mine. Sure, I got into a few fights when I was younger and one time I read a poem right here in front of the Justice Building in remembrance for some miners who had died. There people would know my name, would recognize my face.

Unless they know my secret.

No. That's impossible.

It can't be me. The Games would turn me to madness, into someone unrecognizable, and everyone I know would be standing right here, watching.

I have no chance. We've never had a victor. I'm going to die.

Five of us left in the boy's section now. Just me and Rict and a couple of boys in the eighteen row.

But I already know who's going to be picked. I know by the knot in my stomach, growing and growing, that awful, horrible, sinking feeling.

Then there's just me and Rict.

Then just me.

Out of nowhere, Peacekeepers materialize, one on either side and I know I have to push everything away, just act for the cameras and pretend like this is what I wanted. Pretend like I was supposed to get picked.

Pretend like my neighbors didn't just betray me.

"Jay!"

I flip around at the wild desperation of that voice though the Peacekeepers keep me from running off. Because I know that voice. I know that voice better than my own.

"Stay back, Yondrie! Everything's fine!"

But she's already broken out from the crowd of people, walking towards me with tears running down her face and I'm so afraid of what the Peacekeepers will do to her.

One appears from the crowds and grabs her arm, roughly pulling her back and now I really am fighting the ones on me, trying to get to her before she does something foolish.

However in a stroke of luck she breaks free and bolts towards me and for one brief second we are together again, kissing and holding each other so tightly we might break. I don't care that all of Panem is watching, all I want is her.

Then she is snatched away, for good this time, and they're practically dragging me to the stage.

"Don't hurt her! Yondrie, just stay back!"

I can hear murmurs and whispers as the escort for our district, Georgia Fletcher, tries to speak overtop. I can hardly hear, everything is moving too fast and I'm still trying to convince myself that this is really happening. I narrow my gaze, just trying to focus on one step at a time.

Stone. Dust. Walking. Step. One. Time.

Now stairs.

I have no choice in any of this, I only have one small defiance. I take out the mockingjay pin on the underside of my shirt and pin it to the front so that they can all see who I am and what I represent. And I walk up those stairs trying to look as deadly and serious as possible so that they know I'm someone to be feared.

Which works great until I trip.

I try to grab onto something, anything to stop my fall but there's nothing but air. I know I'm about to fall off the stage completely when I feel someone grab my hand and steady me to my feet. And by the flash of her blonde hair, I know who she is even before I see her face.

Mags. My new mentor.

Since District 12 has no victors, obviously, and there is no one qualified to have the job here, other victors from other districts are recruited to mentor our tributes each year. They are usually vetted very carefully to make sure they are actually helping our district instead of their own which means a victor usually is stuck here for good when they do come here. In the end, Mags from District 4 has been the most reliable and has been District 12's mentor for pretty much as long as I can remember.

The truth is, though, that barely any of us know anything about her. She comes in a couple days before the Reaping and leaves with our tributes, not to be seen until the next year. I've never seen her smile or speak or do anything besides stand there on stage and look out beyond all of us to some unseen point.

But she's smiling at me now. "Are you alright?" she whispers, some sort of mixture between pity and kindness.

People say that she lured her victims into a false sense of security, what with her kindness and her concern, before killing them in their sleep. I can't say, her Games happened when I was five.

"Fine, thanks," I mutter back.

"You're shaking," she says and I realize that she's right. I am.

"I said I'm fine," I repeat, "but I appreciate your concern."

I shrug her off and walk to the front of the stage.

The female tribute is already there and must have been picked somewhere in between Yondrie kissing me and my almost falling off the stage. She gives me a dismissive glance.

Anna Wheelwright. I know her vaguely. Merchant. Decent family. Probably here because she had a tendency to sneer on Seam kids.

Is that why I'm here as well? Did merchant kids think I sneered on them?

"Our tributes," Georgia says, "Anna Wheelwright and Jay Tipper. May the odds be ever in your favor."

We shake hands as the crowd of people tries to avoid our eyes and our blame. I feel nothing except some sort of distant explosion, some crumbling from miles away of everything I have ever been and ever known.

I'm the one who gets to sit in the chair because I suppose I'm the one who's going to die. Both Dad and Kit seem a million miles away. Yondrie can't seem to stop staring at me. Mom can't seem to let go of my hand. She can't seem to stop crying either.

And I can't seem to stop shaking.

"I would've volunteered for you," Kit is saying. "If they hadn't put in that blasted rule for this Games."

"Well then I'm glad they changed it," I say, "because you were going only over my dead body."

I freeze once I realize that's exactly what I'm doing. Kit gives me a strange look like he's unsure whether he should start laughing or crying.

But I can't think about it. I can't think about any of this. I just need to speak it aloud now.

"When I'm in the arena," I say, the words so painful to think much less say, "and you see that I'm about to die, I want you to look away-"

"Jay," Yondrie says and I think she's going to start crying again too but her eyes only become red which is somehow even worse, "you're going to win. I know you are. That's why everyone voted for you. They knew it too."

I ignore her because it's the only way I can possibly get through this. "Promise me, all of you. I want you to look away. Please."

"No!" she says forcefully and she is crying now. "We were supposed to be married!"

Everyone looks up at that. But I can't explain now. There's no time, no time for anything. I can only explain to her. "And this is why we weren't."

"So…what? You're not even going to try? Do you really love me so little?"

That gets me angry. "Don't you understand? I. Can't. Don't ask me to explain why, don't ask me to explain anything!"

I am shaking so hard, everyone can hear the chair creaking. I lose control of my mind for just a moment as I wonder what it will be like, to track someone down, to kill them with my own hands.

No. No. No. I am never finding out. If it means dying to preserve my sanity, so be it.

Mom glares at Dad. "We should've run away, I tell you!"

They think I'm shaking because I'm scared. They don't understand. They shouldn't have to understand.

Then two Peacekeepers come in and there's Yondrie kissing me one final time, Kit embracing me fiercely, Mom clutching me like a favored possession. And there's Dad, as the rest are leaving, who whispers in my ear, "Do whatever you have to do to survive."

I look at him strangely. Does he know my secret? Has he managed to figure it out? "But I-"

"No!" And he says it with a fierceness that shuts me up instantly. "I don't care what your moral qualms are about this, you do what you have to do to get back here, to us and to Kit and your fiancé." He points at my pin. "You come home, mockingjay," he says, his voice thick. "You come home."

There's nothing I can say to that. So I don't.

Mags doesn't say anything to us either, all the way to the train station and even now as we go on the train and it starts to pull away. It makes me wonder if I imagined my little trip up in its entirety.

Unfortunately, no. One of the first things Mags does on the train is tune into a replay of all of the districts' Reapings.

It's as I feared. The Careers aren't so bad since who's voted for is pretty much who was going to volunteer anyways. Both 1 and 2 have impressive tributes and even the female for District 4 looks intimidating, but the boy they pick is young, obviously fourteen or less, with wide, scared blue eyes and freckles which make him look even younger. There is a commotion offscreen and the camera tilts to show their mayor with the exact same blue eyes.

"Danila?" he calls and it sounds so pitiful, so helpless that it makes me want to leave the room, even if that means I won't know who I'm up against.

Anna, on the other hand, starts to chuckle. "Wow, they must really hate their mayor to send his son to his death. Wonder what he did?"

I resist the urge to do anything that would get me into far more trouble than I'm already in.

But the other districts, the poorer ones, are clearly using this rule change to their advantage. Most vote for the strongest, biggest children. A girl in District 7, still holding an axe from her day of work. A boy from 8 who has an unsettling gaze. Even District 11, probably the only comparatively poor district to ours, picks tributes who are strong, who look like they could strangle me with their bare hands, much less with a sword or a spear.

And then the feed shifts to here. Anna may be small but she's still comparable to the other tributes. I, on the other hand, am not.

It becomes clear upon first glance that I have never been fed properly a day in my life. I am all strange angles and skin stretched over bone. A strong wind looks like it could pick me up and carry me for about half a mile. Even worse, as the other kids drain away and I am the last one standing, my face clearly shows fear and terror making me look younger, making me look like just another number to pick off.

But then something snaps, the fear and the innocence totally gone. I look fiercer, stronger, the angles becoming sharp and deadly, my thin body looking more like a badge of survival than of weakness.

The camera doesn't immediately pick up on Yondrie so when she cries out my name, it is focused on my face, the fear and weakness looking more like kindness and protection filtered through the strong as I look for her and as we kiss. It all would have worked to my advantage if I hadn't tripped up just a few moments later and then where I stand in front of everyone and it's clear that I am shaking. I look afraid and I look weak.

Anna scoffs. "Is your girlfriend really so desperate to get you sponsors?"

I don't reply because I know she's just trying to bait me. Instead I start the Reapings from the beginning, rewatching all of them for some clue, some hint as to what I am facing. Eventually, she just grows bored and leaves.

But no matter how many times I watch it, there is only one person who stands out among all the rest, who leaves all of us tributes as poor and incomparable substitutions.

I watch the District 3 coverage over and over. The way their voting is so much more advanced than ours, with percentages and possibilities. The boy, black-haired and uncommon lively golden eyes for his district, stands, smirking, smiling, almost laughing though it becomes clear early on that he is going to be chosen. Unlike all the rest of the tributes where it was obvious we were just acting, it seems as if he really finds this whole process amusing. And when the voting is done, he just saunters up and says, right into the microphone, "Please, all hold your applause until I win the Games." He really says that.

And I am captivated by him even though I know his very existence probably means my death.

"What's your name?" the escort of his district asks.

He laughs. "Promise me once you hear it, you won't forget it." And then he leans in real close like it's a secret. "Killian."

And he was right. I never forgot that name for as long as I lived.