Katniss

Prim clasps my hand tightly as we walk to the Reaping among a crowd of other Abnegation members, our feet all pounding to the same rhythm, always projecting outward. It is stiflingly hot, and already the back of my neck and dress are drenched in sweat. I am once again thinking of myself.

I catch sight of Gale in the distance, walking his brother Rory, who's the same age as Prim, to the Reaping, although he himself is too old. He has another brother and a sister, too, but they are too young to be eligible to die.

Prim lets out a small whimper, and stops walking, letting everyone else flow around us like a river of people.

"What?" I say, somewhat harshly. There is a punishment for being late to the Reaping, and Prim is too old to be babied.

"Katniss..." My sister says, sniffling and glancing around nervously. "I'm scared. What if I-"

"Prim. It won't happen." I kneel down in front of her, tucking in the blouse that has again formed a duck tail and wiping the tears from her eyes. "Alright?" I mentally curse myself for not walking her through the process earlier- she has no idea what to expect. "When we check in, they're going to prick your finger and draw just a little blood-"

"You never said-"

"Shh. It doesn't hurt. You'll be completely safe. It's only your first year. They're not going to pick you."

The Reaping is an easy way to keep tabs on the population- they can find out who is in what faction, how many people there are, and who has grown too old for the Games. It is just another part of the Capitol's control over us, the yoke they have slipped around all of our necks.

I want to help her more but I don't know how. Wait- I do. I finger the little gold mockingjay pin in the pocket of my plain grey dress. Madge Undersee, the Mayor's daughter and my only friend besides Gale, gave it to me as a gift on the day of our own first Reaping. I refused to take it at first, insisting it would be selfish of me to accept such a beautiful gift, but she wouldn't take I back.

"For luck," she had said, pinning it to my blouse- the same one that Prim wears now- and smoothing down the front of her pretty blue Erudite dress.

I pull it out of my pocket and fasten it over her heart, repeating Madge's words. "For luck."

"Where'd you get that?" Prim asks, wide eyed, but I only shake my head.

"It doesn't matter. Now c'mon, let's go. We don't want to be late." I pull her after me all the way to the check in station.

After we sign in, we split up. I go towards the front, where the sixteens stand, while she heads for the back with the rest of the twelves.

"See you soon," I say with a small smile and a wave.

Two o'clock comes too soon, and the square is sweating and silent. Effie Trinket, the woman in blinding outfits who comes every year to read out the names, taps on the microphone. There are no factions in the Capitol, which I find strange- how do they divide up the work and the clothing? Maybe, they are so silly and shallow because they favor no virtues and do not strive to be better.

This year Effie is in bright pink with a wig to match, and she looks ridiculous. I resist the urge to turn around and find Gale in the crowd- only some of us are eligible but the rest must bear witness.

There are some people, either those who have no one at stake or those who no longer care, who take bets on who the tribute will be- what faction? Seam or merchant? Will they cry?

Usually, the Dauntless and Abnegation are tributes, volunteering to prove their selflessness or their bravery. But here, in Twelve, volunteers are all but extinct. After all, in the history of the Games, their have only been five Victors from Twelve. One is dead. One is drunk. Two are Dauntless. And one, Peeta Mellark, the baker's son, who won just last year.

Effie welcomes us all to the Reaping, wishing us a "happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

I tune out the boring video on the history of Panel and the factions that they show every year.

And then, it's time. She reaches her hand with its pink, perfectly manicured nails into the big glass Reaping ball filled with girls' names, and it's so quiet you can hear a pin drop.

I'm nervous, frightened, so desperately hoping that it isn't me, isn't me, that I'm safe to live out the rest of my life without a death threat over my head, oh God oh God oh God...

And it's not me, of course it isn't.

The name of the unlucky girl is

"Primrose Everdeen."