I'm a day late…my bad. We lost a beloved pet yesterday and that completely drained my energy. Today I'm trying to do normal things but I'm still very sad :( it took me completely by surprise and I was not ready to say goodbye at all.

I hope some readers are still with me, I know By Your Side has a slow start. We're about to really get into it now!

Things don't get better, not really. But we get used to them. We have enough to eat; Gale makes sure of that. To my dismay and Prim's delight, one day in March, he sends us a large sum of money and a note that tells us what to do with it: breed Prim's goat to the Goat Man's prize buck. It infuriates me- what have I said about taking charity?! Prim insists that it's not charity, because Gale's note also requests one of the babies as eventual repayment. He knows me so well; I'd never agree otherwise.

I know it's not about the goats. If the Hawthornes really wanted a goat, they would seek out the Goat Man and buy one that's for sale right now. This is something he's doing for me, and by extension, for Prim.

There's no real way to refuse, though. Not when Prim is so excited and I know we'll be able to pay Gale back. We haul Lady to the Goat Man's and let the buck have his way with her. The baby (or more likely, babies) should be born sometime in August.

There is some good that comes of this whole charity thing. It opens up the possibility of Gale and I sending little letters to each other. I'm not good at the feelings thing, or the words thing, so we keep it short and sweet. A few words on a scrap of paper here and there, delivered by Rory. It's never anything too personal- there's a lot of talk about the weather and what we ate for breakfast- but it is so much better than nothing. It is those little notes, unsigned and impersonal, that get me through the tesserae, suffocation, and growing goat belly that lead us up to Reaping Day.

July Fourth, the hottest and worst day of the year. I find myself dressed my best and walking to the Square with Prim. We're in our same Reaping clothes from last year, a soft blue dress for me and a crisp blouse and skirt for Prim. She's shot up like a weed this past year; the clothes actually fit her now. She looks so grown-up at age thirteen it almost brings me to tears. She still forgets to tuck in her shirt, though, reminding me she is still little compared to me.

"I love that you call me 'little duck'," Prim says as we walk. I think she's just talking because she's nervous. "But what if we took it a step further and actually got ducks?"

I snort. "Are the baby goats not enough new animals for you?"

"Well, we don't know how many there will be!" Prim reminds me. "What if she only has one and we have to give it away? Then we'll be back at square one!"

"We'll be worse than square one, since we won't be able to milk her for a while," I point out. "But how would ducks help, exactly?"

"I don't know. I just think they'd be nice."

"Chickens would be better."

"They're not as soft, though!"

I roll my eyes a little. That's my sister, making life decisions based on how soft the animal is and not on any sort of practicality. "Alright. I'll keep that in mind."

We make it to the square, and all of discussion of baby animals dies in our mouths. It was an effective distraction while it lasted, at least. We both hug Mom tightly before falling into line. The sugar cookie I ate this morning suddenly feels very heavy in my stomach, and I wish I'd never eaten at all.

The attendant pricks my finger to make sure I am who I say I am. I don't know if anyone has ever bothered to lie, but I guess they must check for a reason, right? Prim yelps a little when they jab her finger, even though she's realistically much more comfortable around needles than I am.

Here is the part I dread the most: the part where my sister and I go our separate ways. Prim looks close to tears, and honestly, I am too. My main goal in life, for a long time now, has been to protect her. Walking away from her now seems to directly contradict that.

"You'll be just fine," I promise, hugging her tightly one last time. "I'll meet you right after, okay?"

A timid smile crawls onto Prim's face. "You won't forget about me this time, will you?"

I groan. "How dare you bring that up? Of course I won't forget you. Promise."

We hook pinkies and split off. Prim has to stand towards the front with the other thirteen-year-olds, and I'm towards the back with the seventeens. This is my second-to-last Reaping. If I can make it through this year and next, I'll be free.

I'm not thinking much of the future, as I squeeze my way into the crowd, but of the past. Last year's Reaping. Gale and Madge. I had never expected to hear both those names called, and then to watch the aftermath…I shudder. Even from the sidelines, last year had been a nightmare. I can only hope this year will be comparatively mild.

I watch numbly as the show begins. Effie Trinket totters onstage, wearing high heels that look like purple crests of wave, followed reluctantly by Haymitch Abernathy and Gale. No matter what, it will be different than last year- we have two Victors to boast now. Not that it will do us any good.

"Welcome, welcome!" Effie exclaims into the mic. She's way too perky for someone who's about to pick the kids to die this year. The two victors stand behind her stonily. "What an honor to be here in District Twelve, home of our most recent champion! I bet we'll have some volunteers this year, all wanting to be just like him!"

I highly doubt that.

When no one responds to Effie's tasteless joke, she moves on. "Of course, we can't skip to the good part- it wouldn't be Reaping Day without our history! The Capitol has prepared a very special program…"

Usually the 'very special program' is the same thing every year, but with it being a Quell year, they've shown the smallest bit of creativity. I still refuse to watch the program, though. I focus on Gale instead, his reaction to the dramatic portrayal of the Dark Days and the extinction (by bombing) of District Thirteen. There's not much to watch. Gale is damn good at keeping his emotions undercover, even from me. I guess I'm the same way.

There's no relief when it's over. As bad as the video presentation and the glorification of the Capitol is, nothing could be as bad as the Reaping itself. Effie Trinket doesn't seem to agree with me, though. There's a big smile pasted on her face as she approaches the first glass orb of paper slips, some of which have my name on them. Even worse, some with Prim's name. I shudder at the thought.

"Ladies first, of course," says Effie, reaching into the bowl. She finally pulls out one slip (her three-inch purple fingernails make it difficult to grab things) and takes her sweet time unfolding it. I hold my breath while she reads it, as if that might change anything.

It doesn't help.

It doesn't change anything.

She still reads my name.

"Katniss Everdeen," clear as a bell.

I think I'm the last to react. The people around me gasp with a mixture of shock and relief; Gale's face contracts like he's been punched. Even Haymitch flickers at my name, although I doubt it's because he cares, and I hear a scream that I know without looking to be from Prim.

It's me.

I've imagined this moment before. Tried to picture how I might cope with it. But, in my heart, I've always held onto the idea that it wouldn't actually happen. As if imagining the scenario would give me immunity from it. This has always been the kind of thing that happens to somebody else.

When I remain frozen in place, Effie trills out my name a few more times, and somebody pushes me from behind. Time to go, I guess. People part in front of me like the Red Sea, and I follow that path numbly, stiffly, like my feet are weighed down with lead. I find Prim in the crowd. She's reaching for me, howling like an animal. Some of the other thirteens are holding her back. For her own good.

I reach the stage and climb the stairs solemnly. Every footstep echoes far louder than it should. Gale is trying desperately to catch my eye, but I ignore him. I take my assigned place next to Effie, and I stare straight ahead, into the crowd of children that are relieved it's me and not them. None of them are willing to look me in the eye.

"Katniss Everdeen," Effie says, as if she is savoring the words. She pats me on the shoulder and I am not comforted by it whatsoever. "What an honor!"

I briefly wonder which of us is supposed to be honored, because I don't like her and there's no reason for her to treat meeting me like a perk.

Effie leaves me in the middle of the stage and approaches the second Reaping bowl, for the boys. Her hand dances around in the bowl, eeny-meeny-miny-mo-ing with their lives, until finally, a slip of paper seems to call her. "This one!" she declares, plucking it out and unfolding it delicately. "Peeta Mellark!"

Oh no.

Oh no.

The sound of Peeta's name hits me just as hard as my own, maybe even harder, if I'm being honest. I took the time to envision my own name being drawn. I did nothing to prepare myself for Peeta's. He's a merchant kid; he's never had to take out tesserae. This isn't something he was ever supposed to worry about.

I guess the odds just weren't in his favor.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, fighting to keep the swarm of emotions in me under control. Then I find him. It's easy. There aren't that many blonde boys, and only one of them looks like he's about to vomit. I'm sure he didn't expect this any more than I did, but there's no getting out of it now.

At Effie's annoyingly-perky insistence, Peeta trudges onstage opposite me. It's hard to meet his sorrowful blue eyes, but it's even harder to look away. I'm sorry, I mouth, and I don't even know what exactly I'm saying it for, but it doesn't matter. Peeta just ducks his head and ignores me.

It's the first time I've seen him up close in nearly a year. I'm pleased to see he's bruise-free- on the skin I can see, at least- but that's a small comfort when we're about to go through something a lot worse than bruises. We will die. That's the long and short of it; we will die.

I try to take comfort in his presence, but there's nothing. There's only Effie, pleased as punch, clapping like a giddy child. "Lovely, lovely!" she cries, nudging Peeta and I closer to each other. "Here you have it, District Twelve- your tributes for the Third Quarter Quell, the Seventy-Fifth Hunger Games!"

I think she expects people to clap here, but they don't. Except for Haymitch, who slow-claps a couple beats and is probably thinking something crass. Effie ignores him, but she does hiss to me and Peeta, "You're supposed to shake hands!"

In preparation for the handshake, my hand shakes as I bridge the gap between us. I can feel the sweat between his fingers but I don't care. I literally can't think of anything that matters less right now. I grip his hand tightly and squeeze for a moment longer than I should, hoping that will convey everything that has gone unsaid between us for the past year.

He looks at me, finally looks at me, and that shouldn't matter either, but it does. Our eyes finally meet as he drops his hand, and I swallow hard. I dismiss the notion that I've "prepared myself", and I accept what I know to be the truth: we are going to die.

§

The pomp and circumstance associated with Reaping Day is lost on District Twelve. We are simply not a receptive audience. I'm completely numb to the little fanfare they do manage, and I find eventually myself shoved into a room in the Justice Building, alone. For visitation. Before they take me to the Capitol, before I die.

A few tears leak out before I can get ahold of myself. My thoughts are a scrambled mess; I have so many things to worry about that I can't worry about them properly. Who will take care of Prim, now that I can't? Do I have even the slightest chance of survival? What is Gale going to think of all this?

The door bangs open and my family bursts in, momentarily calming the storm. Prim is openly sobbing, but she flies into my arms. I have to comfort her, even though I myself am crying. I hold her tightly, trying to memorize everything about her, my sister, the only person I'm sure I love. I know this will more than likely be the last time I see her.

"Oh, Katniss," Prim sniffles, wiping her nose on my dress. "You'll try to win, won't you?"

"Of course I will," I promise, but it catches in my throat. "But so will everybody else."

"If Gale can do it, so can you," my mother says. Her voice is weak and low. I imagine it's the way she'd speak at my funeral.

I ignore her words and want to lash out at her simply for speaking. But if there's ever a time to hold back, it's the last time, so I don't yell at her like I want to. "Mom. You have to be there for her, okay? No matter what happens to me, you have to take care of her."

"Of course I'll-"

"Not like last time," I cut her off. "You can't go away again. The Hawthornes will help you for a while, but she needs to be able to count on you."

"She can count on me," Mother vows, and Prim pulls her into the hug she hasn't yet stepped out of.

"We love you, Katniss," Prim tells me, as if she is gasping for air.

"I love you too, Little Duck," I promise, and desperation almost overwhelms me, the need to someday come back to this. I don't know if I can, if I have any chance at all, but Prim's right: I need to try.

"At least it's the Quell," my sister says softly, when she does step back from the hug and look me in the eye. I despise how grown-up she looks all of a sudden. "At least this is the one year you have a teammate."

I try to give her a half-smile. "But so does everybody else."

"But you have Peeta."

I think she's trying to make me feel better, but I wince. I wish anyone in the world besides Peeta was my teammate. "I don't wish this on him anymore than I wish it on myself."

"I guess you're right," Prim says softly. "But remember what you two pulled off last year? You helped save Gale from the Games. That means you can save yourselves."

I'm not as optimistic as all that, but for Prim, I try a smile. She squeezes my hand and then reaches up to her hair, unpinning the complex braided-bun Mom had orchestrated for her this morning. Her golden braid, almost as long as mine, tumbles down, and she unties a ribbon from the end of it. "Here. I want you to take this- as your token."

She presses it into my hand before I can say yes or no. It's a relatively simple thing- as are most of our possessions- but certainly nicer than the plain elastics I use to keep my braid contained. It's surely not real silk, but it's a good imitation. Black with thin pink stripes.

My promise to wear it is interrupted by the door banging open. Peacekeepers burst into the room, taking hold of all three of us. Prim yelps in protest. One of the Peacekeepers- his voice sounds darkly familiar- informs her that visiting hours are over.

My instinct is to fight and thrash, but it does not good. We're dragged out of the Justice Building and pulled in opposite directions. "PRIM!" I cry, fighting for one last glimpse of her. The Peacekeeper knocks me roughly with his shoulder, but I don't quit, even when Prim stops answering me back. "We were supposed to have an hour," I snarl through gritted teeth. "What was that, five minutes? Let me go!"

"Change of plans," the Peacekeeper drawls, and that only makes me fight even harder.

"Everdeen!"

Now that voice, I definitely recognize. Haymitch. I stop thrashing and he digs his nails into my shoulder. "Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up," he orders. "We can't have a scene here, understand?"

"There's already kind of been-"

I don't know why I bother talking, Haymitch ignores me, as usual. "Officer, I'll handle it from here. Thank you for walking her this far."

More like dragging me, kicking and screaming…

Surprisingly, the Peacekeeper takes Haymitch's words for law and lets go of me. My arm aches where he was holding it, but I guess I'm not that worse for wear. Prim's ribbon is still clutched tightly in my hand.

I look around, briefly considering making a break for it. I know it wouldn't work, but I could still try, right? It's probably not a good idea. Haymitch just told me not to cause a scene, and he's my mentor now, so I guess I should listen to him.

"What happened to the rest of my hour?" I ask him belligerently, since he's acting like he's got all the answers.

"Extenuating circumstances," Haymitch replies delicately, taking my arm and dragging me just like the Peacekeeper did. "Come on. We need to get to the station. I have to make sure Hawthorne wrangled Blondie."

"Why didn't you wrangle Blondie, if you're so worried about it?" I grumble, assuming he means Peeta.

"That would have left Hawthorne wrangling you, and I didn't want to deal with Smoochgate part two," Haymitch retorts. He tugs on my arm again, a little rougher, this time. "C'mon."

First of all, I resent that, and second of all, kissing is the last thing on my mind. Although, Gale does tend to get more affectionate when the stakes are high. Maybe Haymitch has a point.

I continue let him drag me, so I can follow around without looking where we're going. I want to look back at the district, making sure I remember it. Maybe the dusty streets and coal-stained buildings will be comfort to me as I die, whether that be a few hours from now, when Haymitch's presence convinces me to kill myself, or a few weeks, when the Careers corner me and I'm out of arrows. I am keeping my options open at this current time.

We reach the train station all too quickly. I swallow hard as I take one last look around the home and prison I've spent my whole life in, and then I follow Haymitch onto the platform. Time to face the music.

Haymitch is one of my favorite characters to write, because I don't take him very seriously. Unfortunately, I kind of lost control of his character in this fic- for the life of me I could NOT get him and Katniss to get along, not sure why. Anyway. Hope you liked this chapter, and please leave a review if you did! The plan: post Chapter 6 on Monday.