No animals were harmed but there is a really gross animal scene in the second POV.

Shepard "Shep" Howard- District Ten male (17)

People crushed around me on all sides. There were so many nudging shoulders and brushing hands it felt like a sea of bugs. This must be what it feels like for cows on a factory farm.

I'd always considered myself beyond blessed by my family's lifestyle. Life on the fringes of Ten had its difficulties but it came with so many blessings other people couldn't imagine. I'd never known life in a town or even on a large farm. My parents were... I didn't even know how to describe them to other people. Hippies? "Alternative"? Like a cult but without the religion part? We were nomads, for one. We moved around the open areas of Ten with our sheep and goats, leaving one meadow when the grass grew thin and roaming to another. In the fall we sold a few of our flock to buy enough feed and necessities to last the winter. There were ten or so of us families and between all of us we had enough skills to barter or work for what we couldn't make ourselves. The best way to describe it was that we were living almost like the first occupants of this land, but I felt rude saying that since as far as I could tell my family came from somewhere south of Panem.

Anyway, the only time I was in this big a crowd was for the Reaping. I wasn't even in line yet and the town was already weirding me out with how noisy and packed it was. People really lived like this? Stuffed into buildings shorter than a tree? There were hardly any plants here. Ten was supposed to be the farm District but all I saw was packed dirt roads between tipping old buildings and houses. The smell of the grass and air was blotted out by sweat and all the scents of businesess and shops. And the kids... some of them were so pasty pale. Did they never see the sun? Then I realized they must be the more fortunate ones. They were the ones from rich enough families they didn't have to work. Well, fortunate in some regards. They had to live here instead of the fields. I'd take my straw bed over their feather mattresses any day.

"Hey."

I looked over in surprise at a boy about my age. "Me?" I asked, a finger to my chest.

"I've never seen you around here," he said, with curiosity rather than suspicion.

"Oh," I said. "I live out in the fields." Yeesh, that sounded totally weird.

"What do you mean, in the fields?" The boy's brow wrinkled. He broke into a smile. "Oh, you're one of those weirdos."

"What weirdos?" I asked. Were people talking about us?

"One of those Amish hippies," the boy said. "I should have guessed by your accent."

I don't have an accent. You have an accent! "We're not Amish!" I said.

"Just hippies?" the boy teased.

"I mean, kind of," I said. He was being mild enough about it I wasn't really offended. He seemed just honestly curious. "We just like to live off the land."

"Sounds cold," the boy said.

"It really is, in the winter," I admitted. Wool is warm and all but I often thought we could use a few heaters. Maybe we could pool together and get a solar panel?

"So you like make your own food?" the boy asked. "Do you have as much as you need?" he glanced at my stomach to see if I looked emaciated.

"There's usually plenty," I shrugged. Most people steered clear of the wilder areas since it was easy to get lost. The war had knocked out most of the larger animals so there weren't many to pick off all the berries and fruits.

"Must be nice," the boy said admiringly. "I've had to take ten tesserae."

"That's rough." I didn't know what much else I could say. "Hope you don't get picked."

"You too," the boy said. He looked wistful, like he was contemplating my life. I wondered sometimes if we wouldn't be a lot happier if more people lived like I did. I didn't have some luxuries but I had so many things people never thought about. I loved being out with the sheep all day and watching over them. I was so proud knowing they looked to me to keep them safe from the few wolves or coyotes around and to keep them from falling into pits. There was something special about running my hands through a sheep's wool and knowing it would be my shirt someday. My father was so resourceful with the dyes he painted onto the wool to make blankets and socks to sell. It was a more natural way to live. I liked this world and I loved being part of it. I loved everyone in it, too. I really did hope that boy didn't get Reaped. I wished no one at all would. Everyone deserved to be part of this world.

Virgo Charleston- District Ten female (18)

Bo's tongue scraped up my arm as I tried to brush it away with my free hand. The bull's gas wasn't bad enough yet that he was in severe distress, just bad enough it was visible and clearly needed treatment. It wasn't the most glamorous job for a livestock vet, but then, most livestock vet jobs were unglamorous. Most were really gross, honestly. This was far from the grossest. The trocar Dr. Lovelace was holding went in behind Bo's ribs, not right up the butt like you'd guess when we said we needed to relieve his gas. I had been up a cow's butt, but that was for another malady.

There must have been a thousand applicants for every slot in the Capitol medical schools. I heard there were ten thousand for every veterinary school applicant. As attractive as medicine was, there were a lot of animal lovers in the world. One single mistake and my chances would be nil. If worse came to worst I could still stay on as Dr. Lovelace's assistant. He hadn't been professionally trained either. Only the Capitolite's special pets got real vets. The rest of us made do.

"You're about to like me a lot less," I said to Bo as I clicked the metal harness into place around him. Even if a bull was smart enough to know we were doing this to hurt him, he'd still jerk a little when we stabbed him in the side, and a startled cow can kill you without even knowing you're there.

"That's the best we got," Dr. Lovelace said as he drew the needle out of Bo's side. In addition to amateur vets, we also got to be amateur anesthesiologists. When all we had to work with was less-than-legally-sourced ketamine, we needed to err on the side of caution. You'll feel a little pinch... I'd be sure to give Bo a treat afterwards.

I tugged my mask into place as Dr. Lovelace took out the razor. He pressed it to the shaved section of Bo's flank and drew it down in a small incision. It was almost sealed under the pressure of Bo's skin, necessitating the assistance of the trocar. Bo bucked once, then looked back with more confusion than pain. Dr. Lovelace pressed the trocar to the wound. The tool looked almost like- I always felt so disgusting thinking it but I couldn't get it out of my head- a really gross buttplug. It had grooves along its length so it could screw into place and then a flat disc at the base to prevent it from sinking in.

The trocar slid into place and I could feel the stench. I could feel it all the way in my eyeballs. It was a gross, deathly fume that surely would have been green with wiggly lines if it was visible. I'd seen people start uncontrollably barfing as soon as it hit them. Not everyone was cut out to be a veterinarian.

"That's better," I said as I patted Bo on his shoulder. "You did a good job." I regretted speaking when I tasted just a hint of Bo on my tongue. He really was worth it, though. I hated seeing animals suffering. They gave so much to us, from companionship to their own flesh. We owed it to them to take care of them, even if it meant getting blasted with their butt-stomach rot.

After Dr. Lovelace smeared the area with some antibacterial paste I started unclipping Bo from the harness. He raised his head and gave a long baritone moo. I often wondered what cows meant when they mooed. They seemed to do it so randomly.

"There you go," I said to Bo after I'd stepped out of range of his gas. He lifted one leg and then the other through the opened harness and stood free. He bent his thick neck to look at me with his pretty brown long-eyelash cow eyes.

"I suppose you earned it," I said. It was nice when our patients knew us well enough to beg for treats. I could have done without Bo getting bloat every two months, but I did like seeing him. I fished the potato chunk out of my pocket and held it up. Bo tilted his head to the side, his eyes cocked fishily at the potato. He opened his mouth in that sideways cow way and his long tongue slid out. Strings of saliva glistened in his mouth as his tongue hooked the potato off of my hand. It was what I wanted to spend every day of the rest of my life doing.

Ten thousand applicants. One spot. I can do it.