"So, how are you gonna win?"

Back in the dining cabin, Musketta is attempting to wheedle out some strengths of mine to play to. Blaustein and Tim are still in the television room with Swinnart, discussing his interview angle.

Her question catches me off guard.

"Ain't...ain't that what you're meant to tell me?" I respond. She deadpans me.

"What skills do you have?" she sighs, as if exasperated that I hadn't gotten it the first time. I um and er for a bit before she cuts me off telling me that surely I'm not completely useless after growing up on property, and to tell her anything at all.

"Well, I mean, I'm a good rider. And I've got a decent voice, and I play guitar-"

"Stop. Okay. Let me rephrase. What useful skills do you have?" For some reason that hurts-in an embarrassing way, because I can't deny that answer was ridiculous. What was I thinking, talking about artsy little hobbies? Oh, Musketta really does have a sharp tongue, she can make you feel ashamed for even being born.

"Well...I'm strong. Strong arms, I can carry things. And my legs, too, I'm a quick runner. And I have good balance. So I'm alright at climbing. Oh, and I'm smart."

"Book smart or street smart?" One time Eleanor told me I was both, so I answer likewise. Musketta begins prodding at my body, sparing not an inch of skin as she interrogates me.

"Can you swim? Can you fight? Are you good at making allies?"

I've only ever "swum" a couple times, in a shallow river that moved slow. I have almost no spatial awareness, and other people terrify me. So, no, no and no.

"What, never been in a brawl?" she mocks. She seems almost shocked when I affirm I haven't, as if she can't imagine life without a good old punch up once in a while. I used to roughhouse with my siblings sometimes, but Dalton would cry and Noah would yell, and Bonnie quickly grew far too big for me. By the time Jesse was old enough, I'd already lost interest. I do know how to throw a punch, though-that's one thing my Mama taught me.

As Musketta seems to be examining the length of my forearms-really, I'm sure this is starting to get a bit excessive-I'm struck with an urgent memory.

"Musky?" the word sounds childish coming so quietly from my mouth, but that's what she told me to call her. God, she was obviously joking, and now I'm about to get a good tanning, aren't I? But she just looks up at me as if I'd said nothing out of the ordinary. I take a deep breath.

"Wyatt told me...something else. He said that I oughtta kill Swinnart, because, well, 'he's a right fool,' he said."

"Well, better do what you're told, then."

"But...I don't want to kill him," I argue lamely.

She snorts. "Please, what's he gonna do about it? Hit you with a mop?"

Does she really not understand that I could have other reasons for not wanting to take a human life? It's not that I see him as a threat: of course he's not. In fact, that makes me even less inclined to hurt him. Because, Musketta's right, what would he do about it? Nothing. There'd be nothing for him to do.

"Anyway," she continues, "as well as getting the competition out of the way-not that he is much-it'd show potential sponsors you've got some guts to you. Keep them interested. It'd be real easy too, he'd trust you, you could get it done quick and simple."

I grimace at these unnecessary details. Oh, she's serious about this. She really, truly wants me to kill him.

Once she's done inspecting, having concluded that I "wasn't lying about being strong," she asks, "and what about weapons? Got anythin' going for you in that department?"

"Well...do you count wool clippers?" It's only half a joke.

"No."

"...I can do ropework? Lassos and whips. Oh, and I'm alright with an axe, and a hammer."

She cocks her head. "How good's your whipping?"

"Pretty good. I reckon I could fight with it."

She drops back down into the seat opposite from me. "Well, I guess you ain't half bad." And there's that smile, ever so slight, playing on her foul mouth. And that's when I learned that Musky can just as easily make you feel real proud.

That's all she wants from me from the time being, apparently. She says she and Tim will discuss strategies and tell us once they've got it all figured out. It's only about 7 O'clock, so I'm given the rest of the evening to do whatever-go sit in my bedroom, or something-and told dessert's in an hour if I want it, and we'll be up before sunrise tomorrow, when we pull into the Capitol station.

The room would be cozy, if it weren't so uncannily pristine, and located on a train steadily humminh its way to my grave. Almost on instinct, I move around some ornaments, ruffle the plush carpet, mess up the bedding and knock the gilded wooden clock askew. There. Now it could almost be my room at home, if considerably fancier. If only there were some stuffed animals. The thought of my raggedy one-eyed teddy bear-named "chocolate" after a delicious sweet I'd tasted at a market-makes me want to cry. And I do. Perched on the edge of a bed large enough to fit my whole family, staring out the window at the twilight over meadows I never should have seen and never will again, the tears are sparse and cold and bitter. Not like the hysterical waterworks of this afternoon, there's no fight in them, just a deep, deep soreness.

Well, it won't go away, so I try my hardest to appreciate the lovely landscape. To make the best of my situation. That's always been one of my fortitudes. I think I catch glimpses of distant fireflies flittering about here and there, but the train moves so fast and my vision is clouded. It could just be moonglow on dandelions. We pass by a wrecked city from who knows how long ago. Crumbling buildings stand tall against the sky, battling creeping vines and the rain's erosion and old, old age. The people back then must have been very wealthy, I think: I've heard that there's places like this all across the country, once so grand, so shiny.

I'm not too poor at geography, so I'd guess we're currently passing through-or beginning to reach-District One. I wonder if we'll see any living towns. Surely we must: the railroads are all connected one way or another. The clock says I've been sitting here for forty minutes-quite a shock-and I decide to have a quick shower before dessert. I don't believe there's anything in the world that could take away my sweet tooth. I've only showered very rarely before, beneath rickety spouts punctuating the riverbank along which we drive cattle-usually we bathe in the cracked yellow tub at home. I'm sure this will be a different experience to those entirely. When I take off my clothes I fold them very carefully, and make a mental note to ask Blaustein at dessert if there's any way to ensure they make it back home.

I'm right about the shower being different: the pressure of the water and the fineness of each little jet is almost ethereal, and quite like rain, one of my favourite things in the world. I close my eyes and imagine that I'm standing on the soil of my back yard-no, the concrete of the stableyard is what these tiles feel most like-welcoming the first rains of the season. The delighted shrieks and laughs of my family, the braying of the mules, the gentle pitter patter on my skin like a million tiny kisses after so many months of drought. That is, until I find out you can control the temperature, and a pleasant lukewarm is replaced by soothing, burning heat. It's steamy, like how I imagine the inside of a volcano. I feel like a boiling egg and I never want to get out. There's a wide array of unopened soaps, too, which lather like clouds and feel like silk on my body. They smell of fragrant flowers and spices and something called 'oud'. Nothing like the hard, gritty bars or spiky gourd buds we have at home, and the shampoo is much less sticky than the yucca root we use to wash our hair. There's also something called 'conditioner', which, according to the directions on the label, is essentially the same as the aloe or coconut water we use after the yucca to moisturise.

Something about these Capitol showers seems to distort time: because after would I could have sworn was five minutes, I throw on a shirt and soft billowy trousers and walk out to find that dessert was served a quarter of an hour ago. But there's still plenty left, and it's been kept hot or cold or whatever temperature it's meant to be, by trays of ice and hot plates. Blaustein recommends I try the 'sticky date pudding', and I have to compliment his taste. It's rich and fudgy like caramel, with a luscious sauce. I have it with vanilla ice cream and also take a few serves of jelly, which is a much brighter colour than the cloudy yellow of what Meemaw makes from pig feet, and, to my delight, chocolate-dipped strawberries, which are utterly divine.

I'd thought coming out here might be something of a distraction from the burning of anxiety in my head that I'd had for hours, but it's an uncomfortable atmosphere. Tim, Musky and even Blaustein speak all hushed and hurriedly, presumably about strategies, and I really don't feel like making small talk with Swinnart Williams. I consider taking my plate back to my bedroom, and decide that Tim and Blaustein seem gracious enough to understand, and Musky really isn't the type to be at all concerned about manners. So I wordlessly excuse myself from the table, taking an extra handful of those strawberries with me. I'm not even sure anyone notices. Back in my room I draw the layered curtains, burrow into the blankets and just eat. My body is absolutely exhausted, but my mind is far from sleepy. I've always been a night owl. I think over the day's events, trying to simply process it all, but my thoughts are tethered to the games. I mean, what else is there? The past is too painful to think of, and the present is only a journey to what's next. At least thinking about the future is, arguably, useful. A hundred different scenarios, all versions of my interview. What my stylist will give me for the parade-hopefully nothing too hideous. How I'll attempt to make allies. What I'll do in training sessions. Will I run to or from the cornucopia? Will I try and find friends? Will I trust them if I do?

Apart from all that, there's one thing still that troubles me: Wyatt Kennedy's earlier comments. 'Make sure to kill that boy Williams for me. He's a right fool.' Musketta's words on the matter were far from soothing. The way she told me, as my mentor, that I really should, as if taking a human life is nothing more than a casual ordeal...it was unnerving, to say the least. It's only now that I realise he could've just as easily said the same thing of me to Swinnart. Just trying to get in our heads, make it more interesting, or something. Had it been arrogant of me, to assume he really would so quickly and certainly choose me over that boy? But I quickly dismiss the thought: like Musketta's being saying this whole time, he doesn't stand a chance. He's small and weak, clumsy and awkward, with no skills he could've picked up from his job, and no wits about him either-it's something you can tell about people. And if he's charming or funny he certainly doesn't show it. In District Ten we have this silly phrase-'sheeple'. It means people who don't really seem to think for themselves, who are...unremarkable. Just part of the flock. Like sheep. Although in my experience, sheep are actually pretty feisty buggers. But I'm not really an expert on them. Anyway, the point is, that phrase describes Swinnart down to a point. He even looks like one, with those unruly blond curls. And because of that I want to kill him even less. I mean, maybe if he was aggressive or bloodthirsty like a career then I could bring myself to do it. Yes, I'd be able to kill the careers-if I were skilled enough, which I'm not. Or would I? Because aren't those kids just...kids? Kids who have been brainwashed and trained into coming here, to fight and kill and die. Kids, like me. Oh, no matter who it is, I could never hurt someone in there. It's just wrong. The Games themselves are so, so, so wrong, and to participate in them, to truly give the audience what they want... I wouldn't just lose my life, but my identity, my morals.

I get so worked up that late at night, when it's quiet and too dark to see the clock, I slip out from under the covers and leave my room. I have to find Tim: the only sane person on this damned train. I need to tell him that I can't kill anyone, that I won't, and that he can throw the whole idea out of his head right now. I need to tell him about what Wyatt Kennedy said, and get reassurance that that man and Musketta are both damaged and aggressive and I shouldn't listen to them. Oh, and I forgot to ask Blaustein about sending back my reaping clothes, so I'll talk to Tim about that, too.

There's low muttering coming from the dining carriage. Two voices, I think, though I can hardly hear. The door's ajar, showing a dying fire that struggles against the dimness of the room. I step hesitantly from the shadows

"Do excuse me-" I start.

They both turn to face me, two figures. Tim and Swinnart. My heart sinks. How am I supposed to discuss someone's potential murder in front of them?

"Spidell. What's got you up?"

Shit.

"Well, I just heard-I heard voices, and I'm awful scared of, of the dark, you know, I get bad nerves at night. Thought I'd just check what's goin' on..." I stumble.

"Yes, of course. I was just helping the boy write a letter to his family," responds Tim kindly

Were you really?

"Helping?" I ask stupidly.

"I ain't never learned to write," Swinnart explains.

Good one, rich girl.

Technically, school is mandatory for everyone sixteen and under, but it's hardly a rule enforced. I know there's enough kids in my area who've never been, let alone in The Roosts.

"Oh-you must be a real hard worker then, yeah?"

"Yes, he must be. Would you like some paper?" Tim interjects.

"Yes, please."

When he's walked off, Swinnart turns to me and says, "you go to school?"

"Mhm."

"How? Ain't you real rural?"

"Yeah. I study away from home a week a month, and then I take heaps of homework back, which the adults in my family help with."

He nods sagely. "You read?"

"Yeah."

"Can you check this for me? I'm scared he's written, 'Swinnart hates you all and he's gonna die'." He slides the note over, and then, for the first time today, I'm laughing. It's just a little, but it's real. Well, I guess he is good at jokes then-if it is a joke, it's hard to tell with that deadpan expression. I begin reading aloud.

'Dear Momma,

I wish I stayed in school like you wanted, because then I could be writing this. But instead it's the mentor, Tim. Nice bloke.

I'm writing to you, Momma, 'cause you can read. I know you still hate Daddy, but if there's one thing your dying son wishes, it's for you to tell him I love him. Tell him I forgive him for stealing all that bread-it's nothing a starving man should be cuffed for and I ain't afraid to say it now.

And tell baby Lassie her big brother loves her, too. Keep her in school, Ma. Maybe if I win,'

"I'm not done yet," he explains. I nod and feel myself tearing up. Why do I only every cry at the worst times?

"That's beautiful, Swinnart," I say as sincerely as possible. I feel bad now for looking down on him the way I was. It ain't his fault he never got schooled or fed. And even if he is a sheep, sheep have family too. Oh, but it won't do to think of him nicely, either, because I really might have to kill him after all.

Tim returns with a small stack of paper and another envelope. "Sorry it took a while, I couldn't find any."

'To my darling family,

I'm sorry to say I write this without much hope of ever seeing you again. If I don't-which, in truth, is most likely-please keep this letter as my final words. Forgive me if it's written poor, but I'm so tired and it's so hard to decide what to say.

So where do I start?

Well, first of all, I love you all very much and I want to thank every one of you for giving me the best life I ever could have.

Of course, I'll fight hard to come home. Mr. Waxler says I got a chance, at least more so than that poor other tribute.

And hey, if I really do win, we'll have more than enough money for Dalton to go to genetics school, in the big town, like he wanted. So maybe this will really be a blessing in disguise! I love you, Dalton, for being there for me always and understanding how I feel. And if I win, we can but Bonnie a real shotgun of her very own, one of the nice shiny ones you see in windows. I love you, Bonnie, and thank you for being a great role model and keeping us all in check, and for always being so brave. I know you'll be such a good Mama if you really do decide to marry your man. And Jesse, I can buy you a real drum set! And Charlie an electric guitar, and Rosie a proper metal flute. Thank you Jesse for always making everyone smile, and Charlie for reading my poems and being the funniest little thing, and Rosie for being so gentle and lovely. I love you. And Wilson and Meemaw, I think I'd get you a grand piano, like that big one we saw in the markets one time. Meemaw, you can teach Wil to play all those old songs you know. I love you both, you clever things. And I'd buy Mama so many tickets to the rodeo, 'cause I know you love going, Ma. Thank you for being so strong. Papa, I reckon I'd get you a tape recorder, so you could record all your Mama's beautiful music. Thanks for giving me everything about you save for your pretty blue eyes. And Noah-please don't be upset I wrote your name last, you're certainly not least to me. Noah, I'd buy you a whole flock of sheep, nice white ones with black faces and silky wool. I know you love the fluffy things, you say they're like clouds. I love you, Noah. Thanks for your wisdom, and your beautiful singing voice. I'm sorry about your arm.

And please tell the dogs I love them and I'll miss them dearly, and the cats and the hens and the rooster and the goats and the horses, and the alpacas and the donkeys and the mules and the cows. Even if they don't understand. Take good care of my horses, please, Papa, Dalton, you know what to do. Don't forget Hidey's extra calcium powder in her breakfast, and Blue's lotion for his sensitive skin. Oh, and I'd just been thinking this morning, Cypress needs to retire soon. Keep her in the paddock where the apples fall, because she loves them and the birds.

I'm sending the clothes back, by the way, it doesn't feel right to just abandon them in the Capitol. I love you, again, to Noah, Jesse, Bonnie, Wilson, Rosie, Charlie, Dalton, Mama, Meemaw and Papa. Please be kind to yourselves and don't go spilling all your tears for me.

With my eternal love,

Jackie x'

I place the letter down once I've finished re-reading it for about the fourth time. I guess that'll have to do. I fold it, tear-damp and covered in crossed-out words, as neatly as my shaking hands can. Swinnart went to bed some time while I was writing, but Tim stayed up toh elp me with the wax seal. Under normal circumstances I'd be delighted by the pretty thing, but the scarlet of the capitol emblem only reminds me of the blood waiting to be shed.

Now's my chance. I've got him alone. Quietly, I start, "Tim, Wyatt Kennedy said something-"

"I know. Musketta told me."

"I can't kill him. I can't kill anyone. I won't do it." I hold my breath, waiting for him to laugh or scoff or scold me. But instead he just holds my gaze with his dark, inquisitive eyes, and says,

"Why?"

"Because-because it's wrong!"

He nods slowly. He looks like he's really thinking. "Okay. What do you think the best course of action would be?"

"To kill myself. To jump off my podium and get blown up before the gong sounds."

Another round of nodding. Eye contact again. "And is that what you're going to do?"

I'm silent for a bit. I think over it, imagining myself summoning up the nerve, to take that step and see my world crumble around me. Oh, who am I fooling? Certainly not myself. I know what I'll do, I would never do anything different. "No," I answer quietly.

"And why is that?"

"Because I'm too scared."

"Exactly. Listen, Jackie-the Capitol, they always pipe this propaganda about us Victors being so brave. But we're not brave. We're cowards, every single one of us. Because we chose our own lives over every other's. Our survival over our morals. You say you're scared-I know. I see that in you. I see it in your every movement. And yes, I was a slaughterer, but I was the exact same when I was reaped. And you, Jackie Spidell-you might be just enough of a coward to win."

His words leave me lost for words. I was ready to argue my virtues, and what I should do. But he's right: what I should do and what I will do are exact opposites. For the first time in my life, I'm going to have to be okay with sacrificing my values, to embrace it even. Well, it's not like I have a choice.

Enough of a coward to win. Does he really think so? It's a nice thought. Fantastical, but nice, to imagine myself walking out alive.

"Um, Tim...one more thing." I briefly explain to him about the clothes, and he agrees he'll make sure they're taken back to my family. He seems genuine. I trust him.

It's only when I'm laying in bed that I realise he neversaid a word about the whole Swinnart thing.