I feel like my chapters are starting to get dryer and shorter already, and I hate it. I'm wanting the reapings to be over already, and hopefully now that I've finished them I will become more interested in the story again, which should be reflected in my writing. Theoretically. Of course, I'm still going to have to do one or two goodbyes, but after that I think I will be more excited. And with the goodbyes I'll be able to work on my dialogue (that's my biggest weak point, in my opinion).

And another thing: There shall be no more entering stylists, mentors, or prep teams. I looked back and realized that in fact I do have plenty. I won't really be needing any more because more likely than not they won't end up being featured if I have too many 'cause I'm going to be skipping around with the points of view. So please don't submit any more – not that I had an overload of people submitting them in the first place – because if I have any more some people won't be happy if I can only fit in or mention their stylist/mentor/prep team once.

(DISCLAIMER: Once again, I do not own The Hunger Games. However, I do in fact own Everest Garrison – the spot needed to be filled, so I used my imagination and pleased myself by thinking up a solution to a dilemma I crossed previously. Don't worry, this guy's not going to get anywhere in the Games. I will tell you now that he is going to die quite soon and this will probably be the only chapter that will have his point of view, so you might not want to get too attached to him. Like I have. I really like this tribute for what he did for me, even though his personality is quite sketchy and I made him up in the span of twenty minutes. Which is rushing quite a bit for me. Wow, this disclaimer was way longer than I expected. And I just made it longer by typing that, and this… Anyway, the story continues with Chapter 4 below. Hope you enjoy it!)

Chapter 4 – A Kept Promise

-Primrose Hawthorne, District 12-

"Hazel?" My whisper sounds way too loud in the hushed room. Cautious, I gently shake my sister's shoulder hoping I won't rouse Rue, too. "Hazel, wake up."

A hushed moan escapes her, "Ugh, no. Get Mom."

"Hazel, listen. Mom, Dad, and I are leaving. You need to pay attention to Rue. We don't want a repeat of last time."

Sighing, Hazel rolls over on her side so that she can see me and lazily opens up one eye. "Well, who died and made you boss?"

I am becoming easily fed up already. If I open my mouth I think I might end up waking Rue, so I just purse my lips and glare converting my anger silently through the air with my gaze. The phrase, "If looks could kill," crosses through my mind, and I'm pretty sure Hazel is thinking the same thing.

Hazel's lips twitch under my stare. Taking a giant intake of breath, she utters a reluctant, "Fine," and shifts away from me.

As I tiptoe out of the room, I swear I hear Hazel mutter under her breath, "Looks like Ms. Bossy's got her panties in a wad… Stubborn teenagers…"

I roll my eyes.

Out in our small living room I meet up with Mom and Dad. They are both gathering a few last minute things before we go off hunting. Three minutes later, we are all walking softly out of the front door into the predawn stillness of the Seam. As usual, we take our roundabout, back alley path to find the fence. Seeing as it is the day of the reaping there is absolutely nobody else out, so we don't run into any trouble as we walk along the fence that surrounds District 12. We are threatened that it is electrical, but since the Seam is so poor it hardly ever seems to be running. Still, we all make sure to check that we don't hear any telltale humming that signals the fence is on and dangerous. A little while later we find the hole in the fence and sneak under it one by one while the others keep watch.

As soon as I was old enough, my parents began taking me on these trips to the woods to learn how to hunt. My mom tells me that when she was young, her father passed away. Her mother stopped paying attention to her and my dead aunt, my namesake, so they started slowly dying, starving, but one day a boy gave her bread. And determination. So then she started going out and hunting to keep what was left of her family alive. That's how she met Dad, too. She tells me that the reason why they teach me to hunt is so that I could use it when needed, if something ever happened to them or if I ever get chosen for the Hunger Games. I need to be prepared just in case.

For the next couple hours, we hunt. And I love it. I love the silence, the stalking of the prey waiting for just the right moment to attack. I love snaking through the trees, treading softly, making no noise. I love the thrill of it, the patience, the anticipation. The reward.

I had been holding my bow and arrow ready to shoot a squirrel the way Mom taught me when the darkening sky decided to let loose. Slowly at first, rain fell from the sky until the ground was spotted with dark stains. And then it started pouring.

Now Mom, Dad, and I are making our way back to the house, completely soaked. But at least we had some fun before the reapings.

-Everest Garrison, District 12-

I wake up right after dawn and the house is still silent. No doubt my father stayed out all night with his newest admirer, drunk and uncomprehending as always.

Maybe he won't even show for the reapings.

Reapings. Today. Well, that's kind of inconvenient.

Stretching out my arms and popping my shoulders, I sit up. The room is dark in the corners of the room where the little bit of weak light that streams through the single windowpane doesn't reach. Looking through the window, I can see a patch of gray sky and some dark clouds. Suits the mood, doesn't it.

A knock sounds throughout the empty house. That'll be Dad.

With a sigh I climb out of bed and exit my room to answer the front door, the slapping of my bare feet on the clammy floor echoing off the close walls. I'm yawning as I open the door to find someone standing under the overhang of the roof, sheltering from the rain that has already started to drizzle down.

"Good morning, Everest."

Surprisingly, the man isn't Dad. "Oh, um, Mr. Mellark, I wasn't expecting you."

Mr. Mellark half smiles as if apologizing and replies, "No, I know that. I hate showing up unannounced, but I was wondering if you could assist me with something." He continues to stand there in front of the door, his hands in his pockets, looking kind of uncomfortable. Maybe that has something to do with the rain now pouring in at an angle, soaking his back and causing his blonde hair to sag into his eyes.

"Sure, I guess I could help you," I say since he doesn't appear to be continuing anytime soon. "Here, come on in."

Nodding his head in thanks, Mr. Mellark walks in and turns to talk to me in the entryway. I close the door, not before rainwater starts to puddle on the floor, and face Mr. Mellark.

"I know that most businesses are closed on reaping day, but I thought that I could still do a little something. I want to bake a little basket of food for the families of the tributes that get chosen today, without charge. Of course, I would still pay you to help."

Peeta Mellark is the most well known baker of District 12, and I work for him after school and on the weekends. He is the guy everyone goes to for anything and everything that can be baked, whether that is an elaborate wedding cake or just some warm bread on a freezing day. People also know him for his considerate prices and willingness to work to anyone's budget, for his kindness. Most people say that it's a miracle for him to have stayed in the Seam after all of the other offers for him to move to the wealthier part of the district that he's gotten.

"Sure, I could help. I have nothing else I need to do." Frankly, the idea of waiting all day for the reapings to come would be torture, so any distraction is welcome.

Mr. Mellark tells me to meet him once I'm dressed and ready, and then he leaves the house, walking out into the downpour.

Ten minutes later, dressed in clothes more suitable than the boxers I wore to bed, teeth brushed, and quick breakfast eaten, I follow him over to the bakery.

I knock on the door when I arrive, upset to find out the hard way that there is nothing over his door to keep the rain off of me.

A distant cry from within the house calls, "Come on in, Everest. The door is unlocked."

I walk in, making sure to remember to wipe me feet off on the mat in the entryway. The smell of dough wafts through the building, a constant aroma that always lingers here. Going to the kitchen in the back, I find Mr. Mellark already working away. Without hesitation, I join him.

-Primrose Hawthorne, District 12-

After getting ready for the reapings, we all leave the house. The rain has slowed and now it's just a trickle, but the clouds are still dark leaving me unsure about how over this storm really is. We are too poor to own more than one tattered umbrella, so the five of us try to huddle under it to keep dry.

We finally arrive at the square in front of the Justice Building and have to break off. Mom, Dad, and Rue, who is too young to be selected for the Games at just seven years, head for the crowd in the back while Hazel and I move to stand with our different age groups. Hazel just turned twelve this year, so this is her first real reaping. I can't stand the thought that she might be picked for the Games.

When we pass the twelves, Hazel starts to walk that way, but I grab her hand to stop her. "Hazel?"

She turns. "Yeah, Prim?"

I can see a water droplet land right between her furrowed, curious eyes. "It'll be okay. You won't have to go into the Games. I promise." I'm doing this to convince myself as much as her. She can't go in. I won't allow it.

She nods. I don't think she could have spoken if she tried.

Wordlessly, we hug. Then I have to let Hazel go and twist around the people waiting to get to the sixteens' section.

As I stand, water still sprinkling down on me, I chant a silent prayer over and over. Don't let it be Hazel, don't let it be Hazel. She's too young. Don't let it be her.

I'm so consumed by my plea that I don't notice when the mayor leaves the podium and the escort steps forward. I don't notice when she draws the name of the girl. I still don't notice when she calls the name. I just hear enough to know it's not Hazel. Thank goodness.

I don't notice anything until I hear Hazel's cry. I pivot around to find her in the crowd. She's pushing through everyone to get to me. Hazel barrels into my stomach and wraps her arms around me with a viselike grip.

"No, no! You can't go into the Games, you can't!" She sobbing, hysterical. Only now do I realize whose name was drawn from the bowl. Mine.

Dazed, I pull Hazel off of me and look her in the eyes. "It'll be okay. You don't have to go into the Games. I promised."

Then I go to the stage. Hazel is still crying, but she's run back to find Mom and Dad.

Acting as if nothing happened, the escort picks out the paper with the guy's name on it.

"Everest Garrison."

I don't recognize the name. He's a year older, about two inches taller than me at what appears to be five foot eight, and much more muscular. I don't know how I'd ever beat him.

The escort has us shake hands, but I don't pay attention. All I can do is think, How can I have a chance at winning?

And this chapter is even shorter than the last… -sigh-

Please read and review! And I'd love to hear from the person who submitted Prim to hear if I portrayed her well or not.

One last thing: I have a question. Should I get a beta reader? I think I should, but I'm not quite sure how it all works. I've never had one before. I'm pretty sure I should though… Okay, that question was more rhetorical. You don't need to answer it. Maybe I will, maybe I won't. Probably will. Sorry, that was mostly me thinking to myself. Don't know why I wrote it all out… Whatever.

-Tasting Raindrops-