Finally, some non-Careers! I'll try to update a couple times a week so we can get through these reapings faster...

Fun Fact of the Chapter: The random mathematical stuff—yeah, x is pi to 100 digits, the first equation is a weird form of the quadratic equation, and I have no idea how this all fits into Three's machine speed. Ah, well.

...

Thalia Trinket, District Three

My eyes snap open, and my hand reflexively goes to the scar on my nose. For a moment I'm too groggy to think about much, and then my brain snaps into motion.

X = 3.14159265358 979323846264338 592307 8164062 862 0899862 803482534 21170 679

-b +/- the square root of b-squared – 4ac, all over 2a—that's the equation, if I remember correctly. So if we plug in the numbers, and then divide that by the number of machines...

I'm vaguely aware of getting out of bed, slipping on some old dress for the reaping, and walking downstairs to eat breakfast. But—obviously—my mind is elsewhere. Running through an old plan that I thought up a few years ago, a way to make District Threes machines run faster and more efficiently...

When I grow up, I want to be an inventor. I'm going to help Panem be better, help the districts produce more in quicker time, and this will, in theory, improve the quality of life in this country. I haven't worked out the details yet, but I'll find a way.

As soon as I get all these reapings over with...

And then factoring in the energy... and how many gallons of oil do we get from Nine a year, again?

"Thalia, honey? Are you all right?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, Mom, I'm fine." She sighs, and buries her head in who-knows-what paperwork. Mom and Dad are always preoccupied with work—which makes things very convenient for me, I guess...

And that should do it... oil consumption reduced by 8%. As for speed, if we oil down the gears regularly... that would create more jobs, maybe?

Someday I'd better write this all down and send it to the Justice Building. Maybe even the people in the Capitol. If I can help District Three, I'll be one more step on my way to helping everyone else.

I once tried to show them a plan that would chop wood faster for District Seven. It was quite a good plan, and a simple one, too. The official ripped it up. "You work for Three, girl, not for Seven! They don't need your help—we do! Keep working!"

Yep, not the best response. But someday it'll all work out.

As soon as I figure out this last equation...

I'm vaguely conscious of Bethanna, a chatty girl with limp blond hair who I suppose you could call my best friend, since we spend so much time together, coming to the door and we're walking to the city square for the reaping. She does most of the talking, so I have time for my thoughts to wander.

But if we divide by (a – b)...

We sign in, and head off together to the 15-year-olds' section. My glasses fall off my nose—apparently they had been sliding down the entire time—and I scramble to retrieve them. The mayor goes off on this rant about how great the Capitol is. Somewhere along the line he states the history of Panem, lists the past victors.

No, no, no! You can't divide by (a – b) if a = b! That would be dividing by 0, and that would make the whole thing undefined! What were you thinking, Thalia?

The escort, a bubbly, plump woman with lime green hair, trills that it's time to pick the tributes. She plucks a slip from each bowl and then carefully reads them aloud.

But if you multiply by (a – b)... 0, that is...

"Thalia Trinket and Link Anderson!"

That all evens it out... to 0... everything nullified...

I feel a slight nudge and turn to see Bethanna, speechless for once, motioning for me to go up.

Me. Going up. On stage.

I'm the tribute.

I'm the...

W-w-what? No! This isn't...

I stumble up to the stage, exchanging a glance with my fellow tribute, a boy with a prosthetic leg whom I've never seen in my life, whose named I didn't manage to catch. We shake hands.

This isn't fair. I never... I'm not coming out of these games alive, I don't even know the first thing about survival...

But I've got my intelligence... And I hear that counts for a lot...

I'd better write down my formulas soon. Maybe they'll be of more note if I'm dead. Or maybe... if I'm a victor... they get to travel to other districts, right?

I take in a few deep breaths and focus. I'm going to get out of this arena. I'll use my wits, set traps, form plans, avoid capture...

I set my equations aside for the moment and start working on my strategy, gears of the mind turning furiously. This is going to work out for me. It has to.

It's all or nothing here.