She walks confidently up to the stage. If I know her, she's shaking uncontrollably.
"Oh, Seneca!" My assistant gasps. I'm shaking uncontrollably, like my daughter. She knows what I have planned-or at least, the outlines. She knows the bloodbath I have carefully poured over for months. Suddenly, I was at the roof of the building. The wind and smell of exhaust that the capitol people have produced. The smell of dinner wafts up through the open door. Tears roll down with no sign of stopping. I shake like a tribute's sibling, when the tribute died. I picture my daughter, Vixen in a box, being shipped back to District 5, being buried in a jeweled coffin, with multiple stab wounds. Maybe she'll be finished by tracker jackers. Maybe-
She'll survive.
She knows all kinds off tricks. She is flexible, she's sly, like the species she's named for. She's agile. She knows all the possible edible plants in Panem. But the odds of her winning is 1/24. she'll be crushed like a bug.
Days passed. No one spoke to me about my daughter. But when she arrived in the Capitol, I waited until she was alone. And then, I visited her.
Her mouth hung open; her beautiful green eyes puffy from crying. She flung her body at me, in a big hug. I accept. She starts weeping all over again.
"Dad I…"
"I know sweetheart."
"But dad! Listen to me! I saw the purple lady tampering with the fishbowl with the names in it, and she was adding more names! I grabbed a handful before I was escorted and they were all my name! I was rigged Dad!"
Suddenly, I had a flashback to when my brother was Reaped. Just when we arrived, I saw the same woman, except her skin was orange that time, tampering with the fishbowl of names. Oh god. I stroked her shiny red hair.
"You have to win, kiddo."