A/N: Hey you! This is chapter 2. Everything is developing really slowly but I wanted to set the context and present the characters first. Also, my chapters are relatively short because I'm not used to write over 2500 words. Anyway, I hope you like it. Please R&R.

The last couple of days had been a nightmare. The conversation with Jared, that innocent little question about my dad, made me land hard on my face and leave my comfort zone for once. I've been trying to hide from the troubles and the unpleasant situations all my life when what I had to do was facing them and be done with them. I'm scared as hell about many things, my dad's health, the debts with the healer and the apothecary, getting food for the animals and if you add the reaping to the mix you have the perfect recipe for a mental breakdown.

I know dad is doing well but I'd be lying to myself if I say he's totally fine. He is constantly tired and I'm afraid the work pace would be too much for him, but he insisted on getting back just a few days ago. He was assigned as a meat cutter in the butchery section. It used to be an easy task, but the special butcher saw broke a few years ago and now all the cutting must be done with simple hand saws, which makes the task more tiring and dangerous. The slaying section is the worse, only a handful of cattle bolt guns are fully functional. Killing a goat is not a big deal, but when a half ton bull is waiting for you... It gets a little complicated. By good luck dad is not in this section, but I have a feeling I'll be assigned there when I finish school.

The only positive side about dad getting back to work is surely the financial. When he had the heart attack I had to find a way to make money without worrying him. Sadly, the most rewarding and immediate activity I could get involved into, was also the most dangerous. A long time ago, when Panem was still called North America, people used to participate in rodeo competitions. We only have bronco riding and bull riding here. Besides being a dangerous activity, it's also illegal. Since I'm pretty good at horse riding I only tried the bronco riding at first. I had been at this kind of events since I was a kid and even took part in several competitions before. Sure, the other contestants were teenagers; however, the concept was the same, right? The bulls were terribly intimidating, but the prize was worth a try and in a moment of madness I decided to participate in that category. I didn't do well at all; in fact, I barely remember a thing. It's needless to say that I didn't win the prize.

Thanks to Jared's big mouth dad went mad. Of course, even if he wouldn't have told anything to dad I would have had a difficult time explaining the black eye and the dislocated shoulder. It was the abrupt end of my rodeo rider career. After that, we settled for selling two goats to pay a part from the healer and the apothecary services. Not to mention that I had to feed our remaining goat with dubious quality pasture and we're paying the consequences now. It stopped giving milk three days ago. Nothing. Not even a single drop. The damn animal is drier than President Snow's heart.

I try to make the work and money issues aside. I'll get there when I get there. First I'll concentrate on the biggest threat at the moment, the reaping. I'm lying face down in my bed, still in my night clothes. Considering is Saturday at 1 pm, I know I should be ashamed. But since I'm not a well-mannered lady, I don't give a fuck. What if don't go? Would they even notice? I sigh. Sure they would. The impotence is so big I want to stay here and cry. No, pull yourself together Faye! You have to seem strong for dad.

I slowly get out of bed and start looking through my drawers for some decently clean clothes to wear. No such luck. I grab a green tank with a relatively small bloodstain, courtesy of the slaughterhouse, and get into my only pair of jeans. They're a little torn and the once bright navy blue is more like a soft sky blue now, but they will do.

Dad and I walk silently to the Justice Building. The road is really crowded; looks like the other families were also trying to avoid the inevitable as much as they could. I watch as a scrawny woman wipes her son's tears with her blouse. He must be twelve. I thought my first reaping would be the worst, now I know it only gets worse over the years.

Once we reach the square, the peacekeepers break us apart.

"Sir, take a place with the other families". A middle age peacekeeper says approaching to us.

"Yes, I only want to wish my daughter good luck". Dad says with an authority tone and a hard stare.

"Do it quickly" The man says and walks away.

"Everything will be fine sweetheart". Dad turns to me and caresses my cheek.

"I know dad". The knot in my throat is getting bigger each passing second but I can't let dad seeing me like this. "I have to go now dad, I'll see you when is over". In a matter of seconds he's gone and I'm left to find the register line on my own.

After they took my blood sample I head to the 16 year old girls' section and immediately find Diane chatting with some girl. She spots me and hugs me before I can even greet her.

"Al I'm so scared" She has an overly worried expression.

"Breathe, you only have 5 slips. Everything will be fine" I say.

"I know. I'm scared about you and Astor". She says looking for him in the boys section. She quickly finds him and gives him a loving smile and a small wave.

"Astor had been taking tesserae for his entire family since he's twelve". She explains fighting tears.

"What? I didn't know that!" I'm genuinely shocked. Astor's family is not wealthy but I thought they were faring better than mine. I guess I was wrong.

"Of course not, he told me yesterday. He said nobody knows".

I'm about to tell Diane how sorry I am when the mayor's voice interrupts our exchange and the 69th Hunger Games officially begin.

Good. I think as he reads the Treaty of Treason. The sooner it starts, the faster it ends. The speech is the same every year so I don't bother to listen. Instead, I glue my eyes to the place where our district escort and the victors are sited. Genevieve Sparks, who looks like a muttation puke on her, has been our escort for the last 5 years. She has a smug expression on her face and it's plain to see she's the only one enjoying the show. District 10 has had only four victors. On Genevieve's left is Devin Kendall, who won the 17th games and is the oldest victor in the district. I'm not sure how old is he, but his hair is barely graying and still looks strongly built. Then is Vincent Newman, who is a nice funny guy and occasionally buys me cheese. I think he won the games 25 years ago or so. The third in the victors' line is Mirella Allen. Since she won, Mr. Kendall retired from his mentoring activities, which happened during the 52th games. She never visits the market and I rarely see her. I know she has a 5 year old daughter with one of the butchers that works with my father. And lastly, they saved the best for the end. There, with a surprisingly calm demeanor, is the winner of the 58th games. Clayton Dover. Geez! My memories didn't make him justice. The man isn't even looking at me but I can feel a slight blush dyeing my cheeks. Almost immediately Diane leans into me.

"Did you check Mr. Dover? He looks better every year; I would totally change Astor for him".

"Diane!" I'm sure I have an alarmed expression because she laughs and silently says:

"I'm joking Faye! You should see your face, though".

A scowling peacekeeper shushes us and we resumed our lowly profiles.

By now, the Mayor is finishing the Treaty's reading and Genevieve makes her way wiggling to the microphone.

"Happy Hunger Games you all!" She says with a big smile that shows her unnatural and overly white teeth. It's like all the escorts are trained to say the exact same thing every year. They always start with that phrase, then pick the girl and boy, ask them to shake hands and end their speeches with the hateful but popular capitol saying of "May the odds be ever in your favor". I'm lost in my thoughts again, but come back to earth when she heads to the girls' bowl. 11 slips there are mine. 5 are from Diane. Please not us. Not us. Please. Please. Please don't let it be one of us.

I don't even know who I am begging to. As soon as Genevieve reads the name, I realize whoever it was; it wasn't listening to my pleas.

"Alondra Faye"

A/N: A penny for your thoughts!(: