A/N The Reapings are here! I wrote different POVs at different times, so the quality may vary. Sorry if you feel that yours was worse; I don't mean anything towards you or your tribute. It just means that that POV just happened to be the one I wrote as I was beginning to fall asleep.

Also, I'm not apologetic about the extra week I took. This chapter is almost three times my regular length, so duh, it's going to take longer.

District One

Onyx Avington, 18

After taking a shower, I look out of my window and gaze up at the dark clouds rolling in overhead. It's going to rain. Great. That's exactly what I wanted as my send-off, sheets of pouring rain. If nature wants to be annoying, then so be it.

I leave the window and get dressed in something presentable. I don't want to waste anything too formal on the reaping because it'd be hard to run in, but whatever I wear will be thrown away after I get on the train. Why is this even such a big deal? Sure, I want to look good for the cameras — their impression of me begins today — but there's no need to stress over this.

Rest, Onyx. You've trained yourself for years. Nothing fazes you.

Then why am I nervous? Perhaps it is the idea of going into a completely new experience. I've never left District One — nor did I ever expect to until a few months ago, when I made the decision to volunteer. My father was pleased; the idea of tearing them down from within made him smile. I treasure his smiles; you know you've done something really right when he does that.

There's a knock on the door.

"Onyx," my father says, his voice stern as always. "Let's go." I'm almost a bit disappointed that he isn't showing any emotion. I don't need much, but he could at least treat me as another human for once.

Oh well. I can't work on his life; I can only seek to improve my own. I straighten my tie and wink at myself in the mirror. You'll be okay.

Splendor Boucher, 18

I warily glance at the dark sky. It's not raining yet, but it'd better not rain until the Reaping is over. It would be horrible, ruining this dress, all the decorations, and the show for the Capitol. Rain completely dampens the mood, and-

Ugh. Just perfect. Even from here, I can hear the bickering of some of the other girls, trying to get the ideal spot for volunteering. Seriously, you'd think they have some self-respect.

"Well, well, well," Iluma says, coming up behind me. I press my lips together. "You're here."

"Of course," I say, "I'm not going to miss a Reaping. Not only is it illga-"

"And you're wearing… shoes made for running?" she says, interrupting me. How rude! "Are you planning on volunteering?"

Please… rid me of her. Splendor, hold it together. You're better than she is. You won't have to put up with her for much longer.

I fake a smile. "Yes, I am. I originally wasn't, but I quickly saw that this was the right decision."

"Well then, good luck," she says sarcastically. Or course she doesn't wish me luck; she'd kill me right here and now if she could.

Thank you, I silently reply, I'll take it.

But I won't need any luck to make it to the stage. Iluma Armin will weep in the dust.

...That was a little too rude for me.

District Two

Slate Valour, 18

"You will volunteer!' my father says, hammering it in.

"Yes, father," I say, "I will. You've told me enough times that I can recite it in my sleep."

He grunts and picks up the kitchen knife. "And if you don't make it…. Well, don't come home, or else I'll kill you."

"Yes, father," I say, unflinching.

"Good. Now go train for an hour."

I look to the clock. It's eight in the morning, but the reaping doesn't start until ten thirty. It works out just about right. I hate it when he's right.

As I approach the Center, my heart sinks. Reporters. Most of them are District Two, though a few seem to be from the Capitol. Still, as bad as they are, they aren't as bad as my father, so I brave the mess of people.

I expected the plow through them. That was my first miscalculation.

Someone shoves a microphone in front of my face. A Capitol reporter. I can't turn this one down; this could help my odds in the Games.

"Slate Valour," she says, "As the son of a Victor, do you plan to volunteer?"

"Ha!" I say. "Of course! It wouldn't matter who my parents were; I'd still go for it." I flash a cocky smile at a reporter on the side. Years of practice before cameras have made this easy.

"Does your Dad give you pressure to volunteer? Is he forcing you?"

What kind of idiot is this? Would anyone truthfully answer "yes" to that one?

"Pshaw!" I say as if it were a dumb question — which it was. "Of course not! The Games have always been that the forefront of my mind, and the day has finally come."

"What is life like as a Victor's son?"

"It's the best thing in the world, " I say, "I wake up each morning as I know that no one's taking me down." That didn't come out correctly. I always slip up some way or another when I'm using my public persona, as opposed to how easily poetry flows when I write.

Another reporter approaches. I inwardly sigh and smile for the camera.

Animata Deeksha, 18

As I walk down the aisle to the section for eighteen-year-olds, I overhear bickering.

"I was here first!" a shrill voice says. "Get out!"

"No!" another girl replies, "It's my spot! I deserve this more than you commoner!"

I sigh. Some people in District Two feel so entitled; it's obnoxious. Taking your place isn't a hard concept to get. That escort doesn't care who's up on stage as long as it's a volunteer, and surprise, you don't have to be in some magical spot to make it to the stage. Just take your place, wherever that may be, and try your hardest. Heck, that's all I'm going to do. I stand at a spot near the edge of the section, supposedly the worst position, but in reality, there is a way around this. Dashing down the middle may be the fastest route, but it's the will be going that way, so anyone trying to use that path will quickly get dragged down by other people. On the other hand, this corner is devoid of any other volunteers, who are entered on the other side. I'll have no competition on my way up to the stage.

The escort begins her speech, and I ready myself to run.

For myself. For District Two. For my family. Mom, Dad, thank you for everything you've done for me. I'll make you proud.

District Three

Render Axum, 17

My family leaves as the Peacekeeper beckons to them. The time is up. I've been in here for an hour. So much for my hopes. Admenta didn't show up, Why can't I seem to give up on her. Something inside has always told me that I had no hope with her, but I won't accept it. Now, I'm forced to accept that everything that mattered to me doesn't matter anymore. Focus and work hard.

Miss Glass, as she prefers to be called, the escort, comes to the door.

"It's time to go!" she says clapping her hands. "Let's go to the train!"

I get up and she grabs my hand as if I were a toddler that might get lost. Normally, I like to think of myself as a patient person, but she's going to be a challenge.

"Hurry hurry hurry! Apple is already there. We're all waiting for you!"

I sigh and follow. Flanked by peacekeepers, we walk to the train station.

"There's the train!" she says as if I couldn't tell. I've heard that Capitolites have begun to understand us District people more in the recent years under President Romulus Snow, but this escort seems to think that I have the brain capacity of an animal. This will be a long ride...

Apple Kesari, 17

As I sign in, I look for any sign of Velleius, but then I realize that I can't see through any of the helmets. Last night, he stopped by the cafe where I work, and we talked after my shift ended. It was mainly a lot of "It'll be alright" and "Everything will be okay" and "Calm down," and though I know that it really shouldn't make me feel better — my odds still aren't that great — it did make me feel a little better. I don't know how; he has a way of calming me down and making me feel safe. His little boy is lucky to have him for a father.

He's come by almost regularly every week ever since we first met, and though he won't ever be able to fill that hole in me my dad left when he died from a Capitol bombing, he's awfully close to doing so.

The escort, Misti-Laydie Glass, ascends the stage, and I feel that freezing terror again. Don't pick me, don't pick me, don't pick me. I've been careful to avoid rebellion and do what the Capitol wants. I've followed all the rules. There's no reason for them to target me.

"Apple Kesari!"

It's me.

District Four

Delmar Martin Jr., 16

My head reels as Dorsal leaves the room. At first, my parents came in, telling me that they loved me. My dad seemed to insist that the Capitol would help those that have supported it, but there are quite a few holes in that. If anything, the Capitol audience would sympathize with One, Two, Seven, and Ten before me. That's no good. Then, Dewey came in, screaming at me to abandon "that Capitol s***" and try to fight. That doesn't work either. Just look at Digit, the District Three Male, and Naia, the girl from Four, from last year. They were chased around the arena by the Gamemakers until alligator mutts got the guy and Creek, our loyalist tribute last year, killed the girl. Rebels don't live. Period. After him, Dorsal came in spewing Capitol propaganda so hardcore it still hurts. Am I the only person that still sees things clearly? Has everyone else gone blind?

The door opens again, and Edlin comes in by himself.

"Lynne is outside," he says, "She wanted to have you to herself."

I nod. "And what golden advice do you have for me?"

He laughs nervously. "I don't have anything, really. I don't know what you should do. Burn everything else down, I guess."

The corner of my closed lips raises in a light grin. "Thanks," I say. "Watch Lynne for me, okay?"

He grins. "I will. I've been doing it for longer than you have."

"Okay."

After he leaves, Lynne, his sister, comes in. After a few tense footsteps, she runs to me, and I welcome her with open arms, embracing her and holding her tightly.

"How are you feeling?" she asks.

"Confused," I admit. "What am I supposed to believe about the Capitol? Everyone - well, everyone except Edlin — seems to think that either sticking to the Capitol or rebelling will solve my life problems."

"Don't listen to them," she says. She pauses. "The Games aren't about whether you're a good citizen or not. You just have to stay alive. So please, ignore then and focus on staying alive, okay?"

"Okay."

"I trust you. You won't make any stupid decisions."

Harbor Douglas, 17

"Harbor Douglas!" the escort calls. "Sweetie, where are you?"

I was called. I hesitate for a moment. Come on, Harbor. Pull yourself together. Pull. Yourself. Together. I put on my winning smile and walk up to the stage.

Smiling hurts sometimes, especially now, but I refuse to let them win. I refuse to let them see me crumble. As I look over the crowd of teens, the parents behind them, and the rest of the District Four citizens, I can see looks of recognition. It's the slut, they must be thinking. We don't need people like her in our District. Down in the eighteen-year-old section, Wade stands, a huge smile on his face. He wants to see me broken, like most of the district. He's tried to break me for so long, but I've held strong so far. I'm not breaking now.

I stare Wade in the eyes and flash a smile. He narrows his eyes. Ha, didn't expect that, did you?

You are going to die, he says wordlessly, knowing that I can understand him just fine though his eyes.

I tilt my head and smile back at him. No, I'm not. And I'll come back.

I have to return. I have to win. This won't break me. I'm coming out of this, firm and strong.

Except, when I return, I won't be the prey. I'll be the predator.

District Five

Aaron Aileen Jr., 18

I get in line to sign in for the Reaping. Ahead of me, the kids wince as their fingers are pricked, but I know I'll barely feel it. Peacekeeper training makes that tiny prick feel like nothing. However, there's no way for most of these kids to have any sort of training, and I kinda feel bad for them. Gosh, I'm talking as if I were much older than everyone else here.

When I get to the front of the line, I find Thora, my fellow Peacekeeper, signing us in.

"This is awkward," I murmur.

She catches it and smiles. "Final time. After this, it'll all be good."

I go to my section and look around at the Peacekeepers surrounding the square. Though all the helmets are on, I'm pretty sure the one immediately on the right of the stage is Barak; that's where he told me he'd be stationed. Next year, I'll be standing in one of those spots, the kids looking back at me in fear, completely oblivious to the fact that I'm pretty much their peer. It almost scares me sometimes when I see the effect my Peacekeeper suit has on others. I look for Annora, but I don't see her. I have some questions on electrical engineering to ask her when this is over. It'll be the life, having both the credit with the Capitol because of my Peacekeeper status and the knowledge to transfer into a Capitol school.

For now, I'll stick to doing my job.

Raffaella Silva, 17

"Raffaella Silva!"

My name echoes around the square, bouncing off the walls of the nearby buildings and hitting me with full force. I used to wonder what I'd feel if I got reaped. I always thought that I would be in disbelief or even panic. However, I don't feel anything. Lifelessly, I move into the aisle and take slow, deliberate steps up to the stage. Mrs. Escort asks me something, but all I can do is stare at her blankly. What is she saying? Oh, any words for the audience.

I know I should speak. I know I should try to look happy and fake. I can't. I can't even bring myself to untighten my lips. I force myself to focus in time to hear Mrs. Escort call the name of the male tribute.

"Aaron Aileen!"

A buff, muscular guy pushes his way through the eighteen-year-olds. He looks vaguely familiar… Oh. Oh. That's it. It's him. He brought me the bad news the day Dante was in an accident. That's funny... He was in a Peace-

He's a Peacekeeper? Can District citizens even be Peacekeepers?

I realize what I'm thinking. I've just gotten picked, but my mind is already whirring. I know I look like I've given up.

No, I haven't.

District Six

Diesel Wing, 18

I wake up on the old couch in the junkyard, completely soaked. S***. It rained last night. IIt didn't do this the night before, or the night before. The one night I choose to spend out here is the night it rains. Great. Thankfully, everything that would've been in my pocket I kept under the couch. I originally put it there so that anyone trying to rob me would find nothing, but hey, it works well as protection against rain.

I look up at the sky for the first time in a long time. The blue sky only appears in the few hours after a heavy rain, when all the smoke is gone from the air, which is clean and crisp. Ah… this would be a perfect last day. There's not much smoke, the sky is blue, and all is right with the world.

Oh wait, there's the Reaping. I grudgingly get up and light a cigarette. I should get going. If I cared, I'd go home and change into something nice, but really, who cares? This isn't a fashion show (though it'd be the blandest fashion show in history if it were one). So if I don't go home… I cut out an hour of unnecessary work. I have time before the reaping. Maybe I'll just stare at the sky.

Christina Ford, 17

Reaping Day is always tough for us street kids. We're supposed to "dress-up" and look presentable, right? Try doing that when you can't even scrape together enough money for plain clothes. Stealing clothes is also different from stealing food. Food is easy. There aren't size restrictions with food. Clothes… even if you manage to steal a decent pair, chances are that that nice shirt is way too large or too small.

Still, we manage. Arnold's clothes were the easiest to find. He's practically a man, so it wasn't that bad. It was a lot worse for me and Sarah, though we managed to find some old, torn dresses that Sarah fixed up.

As we go to the check-in table, we pass a few of the new Peacekeepers from Two, clustered together, talking and laughing. These are the ones I can't stand. They're undisciplined and rough. One gestures in our direction, and the rest turn to look at me. I stare at them back, narrowing my eyes. Yes, I'm quiet. Yes, I look shy. But no, I'm not that easily intimidated, and no, I'm not scared of you.

They just turn back and laugh. I bite my lip to keep myself from doing anything stupid.

Augh...

District Seven

Pembroke Thompson, 17

I volunteered. Done. I look around the fancy visitation room I'm in, waiting for my mom and little sister to come in and tell me that I was suicidal, that I shouldn't have done it, that I should've stayed. Still, I want them to be here. I could use a hug right now.

The door opens, but instead of my family, Cassia storms in. Cassia. The b**** that ruined my life. How dare she come visit me!

I open my mouth to speak, but she beats me to it and screams at me. "How dare you volunteer!"

"How dare I?" I say, my cheeks burning with anger. "How dare you! You ruined my life, you liar!"

Her eyes blaze with fire. "You left me!"

"So? What makes you think that that gives you a reason to make up lies about me?" I start to mimic her. " 'He- He hurt me! I said no, but he-' " I pause for a brief moment. "What did I ever do to you? Tell you that you can't always have your way in life? I told you it wasn't working out!"

"It was!"

"Oh yeah, for you it was. It was always, 'Pembroke, give me this. Pembroke, give me that. Pembroke, I don't have time for you. Pem-' "

"How dare you insult me! You are no better than a rapist!"

I lunge at her and pin her to the wall. "Really? You're still trying to do this to me? You're a manipulative, lying b****!"

The door opens, and two Peacekeepers pull me off of her. She walks to the door, but she looks back for a moment. "You aren't getting anything from District Seven this year," she spits. "I'll be sure of that."

The Peacekeepers leave after her. I try to catch my breath.

My mom comes in and wraps me in a hug, crying. I sigh and close my eyes. Just end it, please. I'm done.

Minisa Amaral, 18

I stand, watching the escort open the slip of paper and call out the name of the female. It'll probably be some young girl, intended to force out a volunteer.

"June Quercera."

Whoops, I was wrong. A girl, probably from the poor end of the district, steps out and strides to the stage, her head held high as if saying to the Capitol audience. I'm not afraid. I'm from District Seven and proud. You don't intimidate me one bit. Even she's brave.

However, as the cameras zoom in on her face, she rapidly blinks a few times and presses her lips together. Nope, she's just another scared girl, doing what she knows she needs to do to survive. She probably is from a poor family, being a major financial pillar of her family. Most of the poor families in Seven put immense pressure on the kids because the parents' incomes aren't enough. Without her, her family might starve.

This may be my final chance to prove to myself, to Izzy, and to my family that I am brave before I go into a mundane job, working the same hours and tasks every day, with no chance to show everyone that I am brave.

I raise my hand and shout. "I volunteer."

District Eight

Serge Foulard, 17

I hear my name called, but I don't see the people or the stage or the escort or the mayor or any of this. I see my world fall apart. I've worked for many long years to make money and climb my way to the top. I had an offer to the Capitol school for higher education, and I had bargained my way into a scholarship. I had everything I wanted. Everything was going according to plan. The world just had to throw a wrench into everything.

Every step I take, more of my world crumbles. I know that no one will volunteer; we haven't had a volunteer in over a hundred years. I climb to the top of the stage and look back at the people. My gaze meets a few of theirs, and they look away.

Well, this isn't a time to give up. I refuse to stand by as everything I worked for falls to pieces. I'm going to go to that d***ed Capitol, alright, and I'm going to rebuild everything. I will work myself to death — figuratively, of course — until life goes right.

I am going to win, and not only the Hunger Games.

I'm going to beat fate.

Taffeta Mitchell, 15

Being reaped is an interesting feeling. At first, it feels like nothing, as if you somehow mistook someone else's name for your own. Then, when all eyes are on you and you realize that you actually were the one called, it's like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of you. When you stand on stage, staring into the cameras that seem to bore into your soul, your whole body goes numb, and it feels like a dream. That's what I feel right now. Is it a dream? It has to be a dream; this is every Panemian teen's nightmare before the day of the reaping. I bite the inside of my cheek, hoping that the pain will wake me up. Nope. Not happening. This isn't a dream, something I can escape from.

I watch as the guy is called. This feels like one of those bad TV shows that are occasionally on the television. I almost wish it were one because I might not do so badly in one. I look up at the big screen, and I notice that I don't look half bad. That's right, this can't be the end.

It can't be.

District Nine

Allio Spottedberg, 13

I button down the itchy, white shirt. As if Reaping Day wasn't terrifying enough, they had to make us dress up for this. That's kinda like… what was the saying again? Something about adding salt to injuries — or was it insult to injuries? Nope, I'm no good with these.

I step out of the bathroom, and Fennel looks me up and down before giving me a light smile.

"You feel ready?" he asks.

I rub my neck. "I don't really know. I don't know what to think about it."

"How so?"

"It's not a like a clock," I say, explaining my point, "A clock is easy to understand. You take it apart and put it back together. It works a certain way. The Hunger Games… I don't know. I can't figure it out."

He nods. "I understand. You'll figure it out sooner or later. You'll be okay."

"I hope so."

"Let's get going."

When we approach the square, I notice Cape walking as well, dragging his feet. He glances in our direction and notices us, but he doesn't bother us today. That's one thing I like about Reaping Day. For one day, it's not Loyal versus Rebel. We're all District Nine, unified.

Ryzee Fleet, 15

Kezia is quiet today. Not that she's usually talkative, but on Reaping Day, she's quieter than usual, if that is even possible.

"Don't worry!" I say as we walk to the Reaping, "The odds of you being are tiny!"

She weakly attempts to smile. "Thanks for trying, but someone always is picked, and that person's odds were tiny too."

"Stop being so negative," I say, "You'll be fine! Besides, the entire point of the Hunger Games is to scare you. That's it! There's nothing more to it."

"People do actually die…"

"Look, two people from our district are killed every year from the Hunger Games, right? Now look at how many die from alcohol, or the factories, or old age, or sickness, or, or— Or anything else! You're more likely to die from walking to school than from the Hunger Games."

She presses her lips together, deep in thought. "That's a good point."

"Exactly. Stop worrying so mu-"

My hand hits a passerby as I'm waving it around, I quickly apologize and hurry off.

Kezia smiles, this time genuinely. "Thanks, really."

"Anytime," I say, "Really, I mean it."

District Ten

Kaleb Sirius, 16

No one volunteers for the girl. She seems strong, and I think I've seen her before. When it comes down to one-on-one without any weapons, she's the best in her year. Something about martial arts.

Now for the boys. I had originally expected two young kids to be picked to force out two volunteers, but since a seventeen-year-old has been picked, any guy's fair game. That simplifies things. I had assumed that I'd watch a twelve-year-old walk up to the stage and have to decide whether to volunteer or not. I even briefly considered volunteering. My family could use the money. The escort calls out a name. To volunteer, or not to volunteer?

Oh, wait. She called me. I look around. Nope, there's not another Kaleb Sirius. Shaking, I venture into the aisle and step up onto the stage. C'mon, Kaleb, give a smile. It's not over yet. I bite my lip. Fine, no smile. It's still better than breaking down. I give a sideways glance to my district partner, who's watching me as well. She seems nice enough. We could work this out. Don't count us out yet.

Deborah Merlyn, 17

As I look down at everyone down the stage, I get the sinking feeling that no one will volunteer. Of course. Why would anyone volunteer for me? They know that I've trained. They know that I'm capable enough. They've seen me wrestle and fight and hone my weapon skills. All those skills should make me feel better, but it doesn't. When I think about the Hunger Games, I flinch inside. Just imagining the fighting and the bloodshed make me shudder.

No, I can't allow myself to think this way. They tell us that the one thing you shouldn't think about first is death and failure because that'll make you depressed. I like to add that you also shouldn't think about what you can't do, and it's time to follow my own advice. Focus on what I can do. I can use weapons (though I prefer not to), and I'm best at martial arts. I'm a decent speaker, and I know how to use words. I can tell a story — one major hidden skill of the Hunger Games. Reading my brother's writing has given me a deeper insight into how stories work.

However, all these skills can't solve my central problem. I'm not a violent fighter; I specialize in the arts. What do I do?

District Eleven

Tyson Yarrow, 18

As I wait in the visitation room, I realize that I don't know why I volunteered. I'm not even sure who I volunteered for. It was a blur, going up on impulse. Maybe it was because my life wasn't worth anything. I grew up in a trashy home, I lived in trash, and I would spend the rest of my life with trash. I stopped trying to improve my situation a long time ago. Don't judge me for giving up. You try working against pretty much everyone in one of the most populated districts of Panem, where everyone hates you and either is out to get to or treats you worse than an animal.

Or maybe I volunteered because I don't care enough about my life. If I'm going to die anyway, why not shorten the wait? It's not like I can get anywhere in life.

Or maybe I volunteered because I do care. If I have any hope to be anything in this world, it's to win the Hunger Games. That's the only way out. It's not a great way out, but when you have no other options, it doesn't seem too bad.

But maybe I volunteered because it's what I deserve. Sure, my parents were worthless scum that didn't give a **** about me, and of course, they were bleeding to death anyway, but they had seen me. Mom had even smiled before I stabbed her and ended her life moments before I ended dad's.

Whatever the reason is, my life just got a lot harder.

Clover Forney, 16

Reaping Day. I wonder if the missus hates me every year at this time because her paper supplies always drop the week before the Reaping. My pile of paper boats is growing little too tall, even by my standards. It covers most of my desk, and I don't have much room to work with. I feel a little guilty for wasting all this paper, but I'd rather feel a bit guilty then be crushed under anxiety.

I leave my room and go to eat breakfast, and I take a bowl of grits and sit in my corner. A lot of the other girls are huddled together, talking about clothes and boys in an attempt to make themselves feel better and distract themselves from the reaping. I used to do that too, but it never made sense to me. I always preferred to get my mind on something useful, such as my studies. Speaking of which…

I quickly finish eating, go back to my room, and grab my textbook. Now this is something productive. I aim to be the very best, and every moment used on something unimportant is a moment wasted, even moments on Reaping Day.

Please… don't pick me in the Reaping.

District Twelve

Ezra Robins, 18

The Reaping will begin soon, but I'm not in the Town Square. In fact, I'm quite a few streets down, but it'll all be okay. I had had to come this way for a quick moment to nab a few items. When I was cleaning around here the other day, I found a large stash of valuables, but I couldn't take it all with me without running a high risk of being caught. So, I left part of it half-buried in a hole underneath a large metal dumpster, and I'm back to get it today. I'll go straight to the Center to sell it. We might be able to actually celebrate this year. I adjust my hood and hurry. I still can't be late for the Reaping.

Looking in all directions, I check to make sure that no one's around before kneeling beside to dumpster to take out the jewelry and coins.

"Hey!"

S***. A man runs towards me from behind, but he can't recognize me with the hood. Shoot. I can't reveal who I am or else I'm screwed for life, but I don't have time to lose him. He's blocking the fastest road to the Town Square.

There's no time to think through all my options. When he's almost upon me, I grab a rotting board and whack him in the head as fast and hard as I can. He falls to the ground, unconscious. Problem solved. I get to the Reaping on time, and he won't know what I look like. Is this a little cold? Yes. But necessary for survival? Yes. That's enough reason for me.

Keesa Ambel, 15

In my family, we don't always talk that much. Of course, there are times when we joke and have fun together, but this is not one of those times. This is one of the times where I just stand, both of my parents hugging me. I don't need them to tell me that they love me. I know they do, and somehow, just being together sends me their love stronger than words ever will. There are neither apologies for not enough time together nor affirmations of their love and support. Their warm embraces tell me everything and more.

Finally, Mom breaks away and unclasps her silver necklace. It was my Dad's engagement gift to her; he didn't have enough money for a ring, so he got this necklace.

"Your dad and I decided to give this to you," she says.

Dad nods. "We couldn't think of anything else that does a better job of expressing how we feel."

"Thank you," I whisper. It's their wedding necklace, a symbol of a love that doesn't let go, a love that nothing, not even death, can fully sever. I wipe at my eyes. "I love you too."

Questions:

1. Which ones stood out to you the most? Why?

2. Which tributes, based on this, did you like the most?

3. Predictions for the future?

4. Do you like this way of recapping? If I do SYOTs in the future (which will probably be inevitable), should I do this again?

5. I'm feeling happy today. How are you feeling?

A/N The next update may take two weeks, as I need a bit of time to finalize my plans for the story. Hang tight!

See y'all!

~Joseph