Chapter 1

"Bethy, it's time to wake up."

I opened my eyes and sighed as my mom woke me up. "Okay, ma." Rubbing my eyes, I got out of bed. My mom had let me sleep in, a sign of how different today was. At this time of year, everyone over the age of 12 was up at the crack of dawn to work in the lovely grain fields of District 9.

But not today. Today was reaping day. The day where two unlucky families got to watch their children sentenced to death, picked as a tribute in the Hunger Games.

It could be any one of us.

I hoped it wasn't me. My odds were good – as a 16-year-old, my name was only put in the draw 5 times. Five slips out of thousands. I was lucky enough that I didn't need to take out tesserae.

We had a simple breakfast of bread, goats cheese and basil leaves. Today was one of the very few days where the whole family – my parents, me, and my brother Tommy, who's only eight, got to eat together. They were usually working – my mom a harvester, and my dad a farmer – and with the exception of harvest season, Tommy and I were at school. Most days, my parents left for work before Tommy and I woke up. I was responsible for getting him ready and off to school.

"How're you feelin?" Tommy asked me while we were eating.

"'M alright," I told him.

We all finished up, and I helped my mom clear the table. The bell rang right after we finished off the dishes, reminding citizens that it was time to report to the city square. We all had to get registered before the reaping began. In addition to selecting the next tributes from District 9, the reaping was a perfect way to keep tabs on the population.

My family doesn't live far from the square, but even so it took us ten minutes to get to the Justice Centre. The crowds were filling in already.

"Alright, I have to go get registered and stand with everyone else now," I told Tommy. I bent down to give him a hug. I had to go stand with the other girls who were eligible for the reaping. We weren't allowed to stay with our families. I gave my parents a quick hug and kiss on the cheek too, then the three of them went to find somewhere to stand. Unfortunately, attendance was mandatory. They wouldn't have stuck around otherwise.

It takes a while for everyone to get situated. But when our mayor, past victors and Capitol escort Mercedes Quicksilver appear on stage, a hush falls over the crowd. It's time to begin.

The mayor begins with his usual recital of the Treaty of Treason, and gives a brief history of Panem. How we rose out of the ashes of a once-great place called North America, how the districts had rebelled against the Capitol and been crushed, and the resulting Hunger Games.

We were now in the seventy third year of the Hunger Games. Out of these years, we'd had maybe four victors. The two still living, Athena and Jason, served as mentors to every years tributes.

Mercedes is dressed in a ridiculous bright orange skirt and flowery shirt. Her high heels match her skirt, which does nothing for the look. She hobbles over to the podium after she is introduced. "Welcome, welcome, everybody!" she pipes in her ridiculous Capitol accent. "Let's begin, shall we? Ladies first!" She walks over to the glass ball containing thousands of girls names, and carefully draws one out. She seems to deliberately slow her pace as she totters back to the microphone.

Mercedes clears her throat before she reads the name, and tension soars throughout the crowd.

The name is all too familiar. I've been hearing it for all of my 16 years. Sixteen years that would be coming to a very short, very violent end in a matter of weeks.

"Beth Greene, you are District 9's next female tribute!"

A death sentence. Being chosen in the reaping is nothing short of a death sentence, unless you're tremendously lucky.

I wasn't. I was going to die.

A path clears for me and I feel myself walking to the stage. I don't dare look back, where I can hear the screams and cries of my family, for fear that I will lose what little control I am commanding.

Mercedes barley offers me a handshake before she is off to pick the next tribute, a "Glenn Rhee." He's a few years ahead of me in school. He must be 18, his final year in the reaping. He was so close to making it out. But he won't.

Neither of us will.