"What do you think it'll be like?" Maysilee asks nervously. Her knees shake a little, her dress slightly too small. "Our chances of being picked have doubled."
The dust from the gravel road lodges itself in our throats and noses, stifling the little oxygen we're able to pass through our lungs.
"Well," another girl in our group says tremulously. "The odds are still in our favor, right? The Seam kids have their names in many more times."
"But our names are still there," I mutter. There's no point in sugarcoating the truth. My eyes find the big, glass reaping balls and settle on the one filled with the boys' names.
Our small procession crawls forward towards the sign-in tables. The kids on all sides of me press in against us, adding to the claustrophobic fear.
"Guys, it'll be fine," Maysilee's sister says with a false sense of confidence. We're approaching the table now. In front of us, a young boy breaks down and starts to cry. It must be his first year. What an awful time to enter the reaping. The Quarter Quell. The Hunger Games with an awful twist . This year, as was announced a few months ago, there will be twice as many tributes reaped. Double the chances. Double the competition. Double the fear.
"I don't want to go!" the boy shrieks madly. "No, I don't want to go! Don't let them take me! Don't let them take me!"
I stop dead, completely absorbed in his meltdown. I feel the same way, honestly. If I could disappear, just cease to exist, maybe it would be better than what we're about to face. I'm holding up the line and in danger of being trampled when someone's hands press on my shoulders. I let them steer me towards the table, my eyes still on the weeping boy.
"You okay?" Maysilee asks. She's let the others go ahead to come back for me.
"Yeah," I swallow. "It's just - the way - I can't -"
"I know. But the others are right. The odds are still in our favor. I'll see you after, okay?" She signs in and I see her join the other girls. I also notice that my crush has joined them. At the sight of her, my stomach gives another sickening jolt. What if she's picked? I see her blonde hair swish and a shiver runs down my spine. Out of all the girls in our year, she's definitely the most beautiful. Not just in looks, but her personality is like licking honey off a spoon on a soft spring day. If she's picked, I'll never have the chance to say anything to her.
"Next," the attendant says. My finger is pricked, bringing me back to the present with a sharp stab. I join the boys my age, who give me brief nods of acknowledgment.
"Who do you think it'll be?" one of them whispers. "We've got two chances of being reaped this year."
I shrug because there's no good answer. Two of us will not be coming home.
The girls are reaped first, as usual. I don't know the first girl whose name comes out of the ball. I've seen her around school, sure, but I don't know her name. Now I will, though. She's a tribute.
"Maysilee Donner."
The world swoops. No. No, it can't be. I turn, as if in slow motion, and search for her. I see her hugging the other girls. Her sister clings to her, but she pulls away. Not Maysilee.
I keep my eyes on her the entire time. I almost don't care if my name is called because I'll be standing on the stage with her. She looks so brave. The same girl who assured me that everything was going to be okay is the only one out of our group who was chosen.
The first name to come out isn't mine. I'm not really listening, but a shabby looking kid who's so skinny his ribs are visible even through his shirt starts to climb up to the stage, so I'm assuming it wasn't me. There's only one more tribute now.
"Haymitch Abernathy."
The Seam boy doesn't say a word. Doesn't hug or nod to anyone. He just takes his place, mouth set in a scowl.
Maysilee looks so out of place among all the dark haired Seam kids. Her beautiful blonde hair, specially styled for today, shines like a final goodbye.
"Let's have a big round of applause for the tributes from District Twelve who'll represent their district in the Quarter Quell!"
My eyes stare without seeing, lost in the past. The Quell. The ghastly mutation of the Hunger Games. Even though Twelve won the last Quarter Quell, it was still one of the most traumatizing Games I've ever had to watch. Not just because of Maysilee, but because nothing should be more sadistic than the Hunger Games on a normal year. And somehow, the Gamemakers always top it.
Peeta. He was supposed to be safe. Safety, it seems, is an illusion. Because Peeta Mellark is a tribute again.
No, wait, that's not entirely true. Katniss is the female tribute. There's no way around that. But there are two male victors for Twelve. Haymitch and Peeta. I want so badly, so selfishly, for the male tribute to be Haymitch.
"Peeta," my older son gasps. It sounds more like a gag, actually. "How - they can't -"
"They did," my wife's fists are balled up which is never a good sign. "They just did."
"Why? There's no explanation!"
"So help me -" and then she stops. Because the house is bugged and we can't speak our minds. Well fantastic. My son's as good as dead and we can't even speak the horrible thoughts on our tongues. Just great.
Somewhere, in the back of my brain, I wonder if it's something they heard us say that brought on this ultimate retribution. Could we have caused this punishment?
"There's still Haymitch," my wife says. "Maybe he'll be chosen instead."
"Yeah, but Peeta would rather die than stay here and watch Katniss go back into the arena. It'd tear him up," my son sighs.
So maybe he does understand Peeta. Now that he says it, I know it's true. Peeta will either be reaped into these Games or he'll volunteer. He wouldn't in a million years sit and watch Katniss Everdeen, the only girl he's ever loved, fight to the death when he should be there with her. He'd much rather die than live in a world without that girl.
"Well, you don't have to be jealous of him anymore," my wife says to our son. "Lots of money, a big house, pretty girls don't do you much good dead."
"No," my son says hoarsely. "No, there's no precedent for this. The victors are safe, out of the reaping!"
The world is tipping, much like it did so many years ago when Maysilee was reaped. I can't seem to get enough oxygen. Black spots dance in my eyes, warning me. I stand up shakily.
"Where are you going?" I hear someone ask. But I can't answer. I just know that I need some fresh air. Now.
As I push open the door and step out into the cool, chilly evening, I gulp down inhale, after inhale of the night air. The crisp, clean air leaves me to think clearer, which I'm not sure is a good thing. At least I no longer feel like I'm going to pass out. I'll walk for awhile. I don't know where to - anywhere away from here.
Déjà vu. A tape being played over and over. I just went through this. With Maysilee. With Peeta's first Games. It's all a big cycle, with fear and terror predominating. How many times will I have my son taken away? How many times will I believe he's dying? The feeling has become part of the routine, expected. But perhaps it's never been quite as real as in this moment. Maybe my wife is right. Nothing is ever going to change as long as the Capitol's in charge.
I hear someone's footsteps on the road behind me, but I don't turn. If it's Peacekeepers, let them come. They've already taken just about everything.
"Where are you going?" It's not the authorities, but my wife. She's out of breath and I vaguely wonder how far I've walked if she had to run to catch up.
"I'm just walking," I tell her.
"Are you okay?"
"No."
Because that's the truth. I'm not okay. How can the Capitol do this? They already took my son. He was already apart of their sick show. I don't understand. He came home. He was safe.
"We should have started a rebellion," I whisper hoarsely. I don't care who overhears. I'm so beyond caring about anything right now. "Then this wouldn't be happening."
"Maybe it would," she sighs. "Rebellions aren't won in a month. Peeta would probably be in more danger. We all would be."
"How can he possibly be in more danger than he is now?" I burst out. "How? Tell me! Because he's not going to live this time. This is punishment, don't you see? They'll kill him if it's the last thing they do." I feel my voice catching and I don't want it to break. I refuse to cry. To give the Capitol the pleasure of seeing my tears.
For once, my wife doesn't have anything to say. She just glares off into the night. "We can't keep letting them do this to us," she mutters. "They taunt us with hope, dangle it in front of our faces, then snatch it away again."
"Peeta thought he was safe. I thought he was safe."
"Peeta was never safe," she says sharply. "Never. He and Katniss both got out alive and it was only a matter of time until the Capitol figured out a way to get back at them."
"Do you think that was really written down on that card?" I ask. It's just too perfect of an answer.
"I don't care what was written on that card. Blood. Dead children. Fear. That's what it may as well have said. Really, the whole country has been played. Thinking the Capitol would mind it's own damn business for once. Thinking they'd let the blatant rule break slide. We're all idiots."
She's completely and totally right. How could we have believed that our son was safe? The Capitol had us focused on the romance, let it play out, let the country believe that there would be a wedding, a joyful ending in their star-crossed story. Turns out that was just a ruse. They had us looking in the other direction while they prepared the poison. We were unsuspecting and therefore vulnerable.
Katniss. Peeta. Gone forever. Because, really, there's only a few precious months before the reaping. And this time, it's goodbye for real.
"Peeta's probably in shock," I say, just now realizing that he had to watch this all by himself. In a big, dark, lonely, house that signifies the Capitol's control over him.
"Don't," my wife warns me. "Don't go rushing to his side and pretending to know how it feels. It just makes things worse." I know she's really talking about people's reactions when her brother died. That trauma runs deep inside her veins. "Let him be. When he's ready, he'll come to you."
And that's when it finally sinks in. After Peeta left for the first Games, his life truly ended. Sure, he came home. But not whole. My son was broken, traumatized, and completely a puppet of the Capitol. Marry this girl, live in this house, don't say that, wear this. Everything since he's come home has been staged, controlled, with every day leading up to this moment. No amount of sealed lips in our house or quiet compliancy would have derailed this. We were so blind.
In the face of love, we lost sight of our enemy. And it hurts.