Another short one. Don't sue me; I gave you two at a time.

Fun Fact of the Chapter: I'm fond of shout-outs and Sondheim. So, if you've happened to notice any very blatant musical references squeezed in wherever they fit, good for you. You get a brownie point. Hint: the "poem" is Mr. Sondheim's. Not mine. And—just take a good, long look at the escort, okay?

…..

Noaa Carpenter, District Nine

Leave it to me to be stuck in the back of the sign-in line when the reaping starts.

Seriously, just how many new twelve-year-olds need to go through the special first sign-in form? And how many need to be escorted to the twelve-year-olds section? It must have been some kind of bubble year. And half of them must be really, really dumb.

Okay, I know that's not a fair way to think. I'm just impatient. Okay, calm down, Noaa. Rationalize. Take deep breaths. You can do this. It's not that long a wait.

"Happy Hunger Games, District Nine." It's already started? Yeah, Bobby's making his way to the front of the stage, looking as unemotional as ever. Will you hurry up? I want to scream, but I don't.

"And may the odds be ever in your favor..." There are only a few people ahead of me now. Good. Now watch me not get reaped and all this waiting be for nothing. "... I stood it." Oh, Bobby. He grows on you, especially when you've had to stand him for several years.

I've mostly gained control myself by now, as I watch the number of people in front of me diminish at a steady pace. Soon, I'm right in front of the desk, and I sigh. "Noaa Carpenter, 16." The lady at the desk signs me in, and I begin to squeeze through the crowd towards my section—a thoroughly unpleasant thing to do, what with all the twelve-year-olds...

"So... yeah. Ladies first." I duck under one of the ropes into the next section, which is much easier to get through. "Jacy Latone."

I look up. Jace is in my class at school, though she's very quiet and we don't hang out with the same crowds, anyways. I heard some rumor about her mom being taken away by the Capitol to be an Avox or something... Jace, looking unnaturally bored, strides over to the stage. I wonder if she's doing that to mock Bobby. "Any volunteers?" I can visibly see Jace snort and push back her silvery-blond hair, subconsciously biting her lip. Interesting.

No volunteers. I've made it to my section, though, which is a relief. "Well, then. Jacy Latone, District Nine tribute." I sigh as Bobby makes his way over to the other side of the stage. Even though I barely knew her, I feel sorry for Jace. I can't imagine what it would be like to go into the Hunger Games, knowing that you have slim odds of surviving. With what little I know about Jace, she's probably using her snarky eye-rolls as a coping mechanism. I don't know if-

"Noaa Carpenter!"

I blink, stunned. Then exactly one word crosses my mind. It's not a very nice word, either, and I probably shouldn't repeat it here.

A tirade of more angry, not-very-nice words stream through my brain as I walk up to the stage. By the time I get there, I'm clenching my fists, my face is red, and I've thoroughly exhausted all of the curse words that I know, culminating in a Capitol, you suck.

"Any volunteers?"

No one? District Nine, you suck, too.

"Jacy Latone and Noaa Carpenter, District Nine tributes," says Bobby, whose very presence is infuriating, and Jace and I shake hands. Both she and Bobby look passive, which only makes me angrier. Can't they even bring themselves to care?

Final goodbyes come next. My parents let me storm around the room for a minute before I take in some deep breaths and calm myself down. Then come the tears and the "I love you"s and the "Come back"s and all. It's all the same words, but the messages are no less meaningful. I love you, I love you, I love you, and you, and you, and I'll try to come home, I promise. I'll do everything I can.

After the hour is up, Bobby escorts Jace and me to the train. I sigh and stick my hand in my pocket, fingers brushing against a small piece of paper I keep in there. It's a snippet of an old poem, one that I found in the dumpster, half-burnt. I doubt it's legal, because all of the official Panemmian poems are either about the glory of Capitol, the Hunger Games, or how good life is. I whisper the words under my breath, words that I've memorized.

Somebody crowd me with love

Somebody force me to care

Somebody make me come through

I'll always be there

As frightened as you

To help us survive

Being alive, being alive, being alive.

A nice poem to think about when you're being shipped off to your death. "Being alive, being alive, being alive." But hey, anything goes.