I sit straight up in bed, panting, and realize my shirt and sheets are drenched in sweat. If there's one thing I'm certain of, it's that everyone my age has nightmares about Reaping Day, but that no one talks about it. Pulling the shirt off and throwing it to the floor, I lean against the wall, grounded by the scratchy realness of the wood.
I want to turn on the lamp but my mom would frown at the waste of electricity, so I lie in the dark, rehashing the dream. There were three tributes-all much larger than me-chasing a small, dark-haired girl. She was a fast runner, but it was obvious they would overtake her soon. I hid behind a tree nearby, fists clenched and muscles tensed, silently urging her on. They gained on her steadily, five feet away, then three, then one ... the largest tribute reached out, grabbing her roughly by the shoulder and throwing her on the ground. Her eyes grew wide, wild but not afraid, and in her last moment of terror, she saw me. In her frantic search for a way out, she found me behind my tree, helplessly watching, while she was about to be killed.
Katniss.
My heart races again as I remember the look on her face-proud to the end but aware that she was going to die. The image is so real, so frightening, that a tear rolls down my cheek unbidden.
The Games aren't for another six months, but they're always in the back of our minds. What will I do if I'm chosen? How will I behave? Sometimes the most bold and daring become weeping babies, crippled by fear, while the tiny and seemingly weak grow defiant and strong. Katniss would make it to the final few, that's for sure. She may be small and female but she's strong and stubborn. Yes, Katniss could easily win the Hunger Games.
Where would that leave me? I'm strong sure, but I have no skills to speak of. Would I be crying, begging for her mercy? Would I become a fierce warrior and kill her first, knowing she was a threat? God willing, we'll never have to find out ...