Fun Fact of the Chapter: Chantelle's creator almost made her last name "Anderson," which would've been incredibly ironic, seeing as her district partner's first name is "Anderson" and we already have a "Link Anderson" from Three...

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Chantelle Jacobsen, District Ten

"God, I can't wait until the Games start."

Simultaneously, my whole family turns to Gramps and glares. Annalise and Landon share a significant glance; Dad crosses his arms and takes a few steps away from him; Mom looks like she can't decide if she's horrified or angry; Gram just looks exasperated.

"How many times do we have to remind you, Allen?" Gram begins to lecture, taking the cookies out of the oven. "You're not a Peacekeeper anymore. You're a citizen of District Ten. So at least show some respect for our family and act like it."

Gramps slouches back in his chair and closes an eye. "I keep tellin' you, Chantelle, you can't teach an old dog new tricks."

Gram rolls her eyes but says nothing. Mom, however, continues the tirade. "And especially when Chantelle here"-she motions to where I, Young Chantelle, am sitting- "is still in the reaping! For shame, Dad!"

"Yeah, well." He shrugs, and clicks the battered TV remote button, changing the channel.

"And all you ever watch is that TV!" Mom scolds. "Capitol announcement after Capitol announcement after Capitol propaganda!"

"Sweetie, you're forgetting that I was once, in fact, from the Capitol."

"No need to go flaunting it in our faces!"

Annalise and Landon decide that they have heard enough and, thanks to their oh-so-special twin bond, get up in unison and head over to their rooms. After a few more lines of argument, I walk out the back door and into the farm yard, breathing in the fresh air. A few feet away from me, Max whimpers, obviously upset at being tied to a post. I tenderly undo the knot, stroking his soft gray fur. My dog, it seems, is my only friend on this isolated ranch. Probably my only one in the world.

"Did you see that?" calls Gramps from the house, presumably in reaction to one of the Reapings. "DID YOU SEE THAT LITTLE GIRL? This is why we should have volunteers, so that nobody that scared should have to go into the Games! No one!"

While Gramps continues his yelling, Gram comes out into the yard. "Chantelle, honey, it's time for us to go."

I look up, grabbing Max's collar. "What's Gramps yelling about?"

Gram purses her lips. "No one volunteered for the 14-year-old girl who was called from One." Oh, that's odd. "She was the daughter of a victor, but clearly scared."

I nod, not really in the mood for caring, as I tie Max back up. It's already a known fact that people can be cold-hearted monsters, no use groaning about it.

We live on the outskirts of the district, so it takes us a while to get to the man town. Since Ten is pretty sprawled-out, every household has a cart and some animal that can pull it, so that they don't have to walk so far. Our animal is a horse named Messa. I don't care much for horses, but Annalise and Landon absolutely adore it. They deal with getting Messa hooked up to the cart while I help Gram and Gramps into the front seats of the cart. Gramps is still lamenting about that "little girl" from One, and I'm tempted to point out that she's only one year younger than I am.

We make it into town in time, and I sign in. "Good luck," says Mom as the rest of my family heads off into the edge of the crowd. I continue over to the 15-year-olds section, standing awkwardly in the middle of the crowd. I don't know any of these kids, and they don't know me. Dad never liked the idea of us going into town every day just for a school full of Capitol propaganda, so we were homeschooled. And this is the result.

Our escort, Delia Dee, comes up onto the stage, wearing a large cowgirl hat and ridiculous boots. Every year, she does this to try to connect to the people of District Ten. We don't like it. "Hey, y'all! Are all you farmers and hostlers ready to ride?" She doesn't wait for a response, knowing that we won't give one to her. "Well, then, let's get started with the reaping! Gals're up first!"

I shake my head and sigh lightly. Delia walks over to the bowl on the left and picks out a slip. "Well, folks, it seems our lucky girl today is Chantelle Jacobsen! Come on up, Chantelle!"

W-w-wait. No. It—it can't—no! It's not—is it? That's—that's—I've been—I'm going into the Games! N-n-no!

Walk, Chantelle.

I force myself to move to the stage, heading up the stairs and shaking hands with the escort. My mind is still running around in circles when the boy's name is called. "Anderson Birk!" There is no movement from the crowd. "Is there an Anderson Birk here, 16 years old?"

Eventually, a weak male voice calls out, "Yes," and the 16-year-old crowd parts to make way for the boy, who has started to walk up to the stage. At first I don't notice anything different about him—except that he walks really slowly—and then I see the stick tapping out the way in front of his feet, and that his eyes are closed. "Can somebody help me up the stairs?" he asks meekly, and one of the kids in the front takes his arm as they ascend.

I've never seen or heard of this Anderson boy before, but it's pretty obvious that he's blind.

"Well, well, this is quite a twist, isn't it?" says Delia nervously, as if trying to hide her own anger. "Any volunteers for these two?"

A wind blows across the area, but no one in the crowd speaks up. I'm suddenly reminded of Gramps's comment from earlier: "This is why we should have volunteers, so that nobody that scared should have to go into the Games! No one!"

But—wait. That wasn't just my memory of his voice. That was his voice.

As soon as I come to that realization, a gunshot sounds and chaos breaks out. Delia grabs Anderson's arm and we are swept away to the Justice Building by a squad of Peacekeepers, with more gunshots sounding in the distance. I am dumped into a guarded room and told to wait for my visitors.

It's a while before I realize that no one's coming. That they're already dead, or imprisoned, or in mourning. They're going to pay for what Gramps said. And so will I, in the arena.

Unless I push the hardest I can to come home, I'll never get to say goodbye.