The worst part about Reaping Day is how normal the morning feels.
The sun still rises. The birds still sing. Ione still hums while she brushes her hair, though the sound makes my stomach turn.
It's too bright today — the sky too blue, the air too crisp. The kind of morning you might call beautiful, if it wasn't the day two families in District 12 lose someone they love.
If it wasn't the day we send two more kids off to die.
I pull on the clothes I left folded at the end of my bed— the black fake-leather skirt, fishnet stockings, and a sleeveless tank top that belonged to my mother. Risky. Enough to cause a frenzy in the Capitol and maybe District 1 if a camera catches me. It's not a mistake.
Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't be caught dead in this. But today it's not about trying to blend in.
I take the leather-bound battered notebook that's on my bed side table and fasten it to the waistline of my skirt. I make sure it's well supported before I go downstairs.
Ione looks prettier than me, like always. She's brushed her hair until it shines, though she left it down in soft waves the way I like it. She stands in the light of my bedroom window, sunlight catching the brown in her hair, and for a moment I hate her for looking so calm.
I know it's a cruel thought. It's not her fault she's like this — soft, hopeful, untouched by the worst parts of the world. I don't know where she gets that from.
Ione disappears into the kitchen. I follow, watching her stir a pot of weak oatmeal. There's also Gradma Felippa asleep in her wheelchair. I kiss her on the temple while Ione glares at me.
"What are you wearing?"
"Do you like it?" I answer, too flippantly.
"You're going to get whipped."
"Not if I wear a coat over it."
She snorts. "In this heat? That's more suspicious than the outfit."
"Then I'll deal with it."
She opens her mouth, probably to offer me something of hers, but I cut her off before she can.
"No. Don't. I'm wearing this."
Ione's face softens when I pull three plates from the cabinet and set them on the table.
"Blair's going to propose," she says suddenly, voice quiet but steady.
I freeze, a plate halfway to the table.
I stare at her. She won't look at me, instead focusing on the oatmeal she's stirring like her life depends on it.
"You're sure?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
She nods.
I swallow hard. "When?"
"Soon. Maybe after the Reaping." Her voice shakes a little on the last word.
I put the plate down, more carefully than necessary. The room feels smaller.
"You need to tell him," I say, voice low. "You need to convince him to leave the district."
Her head snaps up, eyes narrowing. "He won't. You know that. Plus, what would we do with Grandma, then?"
My chest tightens. "You know I can take care of Grandma perfectly fine, thank you very much."
It's true. I'm the one who gets her medicines from the Apothecary, who checks on her all the time, more so when Ione stays at Blair's. Grandma moved in with us after Mom died. We didn't want her to be alone, and we were right. But when Ione marries, she'll stay here with me.
"Maybe Blair would think differently with a kid on the way," I say before I can stop myself.
Ione's eyes go wide, face pale. "What—"
"I'm not stupid," I interrupt, voice soft. "You've been sick every morning for a week. You barely touched dinner last night. You think I wouldn't notice?"
Her shoulders sag, and for a second, I think she might deny it. But instead, her eyes well up, and she looks away.
"It's too early to be sure," she whispers.
"Then don't wait until it's too late," I say, gentler now. "Please. Just try. This year feels different. People are talking. The districts are restless since Haymitch's Games, and it only gets worse… The Capitol's going to make the Games worse. To remind us."
Her jaw tightens, voice low. "Did my father tell you that?"
"He didn't have to," I say quietly. "I can feel it."
Ione looks away. I don't tell her the rest — the part about Mom's death. How it now looks less like a suicide and more like a warning.
Her voice softens. "Is that why you're dressed like that?"
"Yeah." I don't lie.
"Acalia… you can't —"
Her voice shakes. "What about you?"
I force a smile I don't feel. I wish I didn't have to push her away like this.
"I can take care of myself, you know that."
She looks at me for a long moment, searching my face. Finally, she exhales, defeated.
"I'll talk to him."
It's not a promise. But it's something.
After that, Ione disappears into the back room, mumbling something about finding a coat for me to cover with. I stay in the kitchen, running my fingers along the edge of the table. The wood's rough and splintered, worn down from years of elbows and hands and weight.
Grandma shifts in her chair with a soft sigh, stirring awake.
Her head lifts slowly, her eyes hazy with sleep. For a second, she blinks at me like she's seeing someone else. My throat tightens.
"You look just like her," she murmurs, her voice thin and papery.
I don't ask who she means. I already know.
Her hands tremble as she reaches for mine. I take them carefully, like she might break.
"I dreamed about the war last night," she says softly. "The Dark Days. I could hear the bombs, smell the smoke. It's funny, the things you remember."
I stay quiet. She hasn't talked much since Mom died. I used to love her stories. Now, they feel more like warnings.
"I remember when they took the Capitol," she goes on, her voice distant. "I hate them for what they do. What they take — every year, every day. But we weren't so different from them back then."
I blink, caught off guard. "What do you mean?"
Her gaze drifts, unfocused. "They sieged the Capitol and left them to starve. There were little kids' entrails on the street when they entered. It wasn't pretty… And the smell… Oh, Acalia, dear, the smell! I won't ever forget that."
My stomach twists.
"Gran," I say, voice low. "What are you trying to say?"
She looks at me for a long moment. I wonder if I'll ever see as much as those eyes have — all the things she's witnessed, all the things she can't forget.
"Just be careful, sweetheart," she says softly. "The Capitol isn't the only thing you should be afraid of."
Her voice drops to a whisper, barely audible.
"Sometimes, it's the people who say they're on your side you have to watch the most."
The walk to the cemetery feels longer than usual.
It's not, of course. I've walked this path so many times I could probably do it blindfolded. But today, my legs feel heavier with every step, like the weight of what I'm about to do is slowing me down.
The bundle of flowers is small in my hands, wrapped carefully in a bit of old linen from one of Mom's dresses. I picked them a few days ago — too early. They're wilting now, petals curling in on themselves, but that feels right, somehow. Like they belong here. Like they belong to him.
I pass the bakery first. It smells like burnt bread again, which means the younger Mellark boy must've been on oven duty. He always forgets to pull the loaves out on time. I used to tease him about it.
I wonder if he'll be in the square later. I wonder if I'll still be around tomorrow to tease him again.
Mrs. Marley is sweeping her porch, even though the dust just swirls around her feet and settles right back down. A few kids laugh somewhere near the square — too young to understand what today means.
They'll understand soon enough.
I keep walking. Past the school, with its peeling white paint and broken windows. Past the Community Home, where I spend most of my afternoons helping with the younger kids and visiting the old folks at the Elder Center. I wonder if they'll miss me, if I'm gone by sunset.
The road turns to dirt and gravel as it winds up the hill to the cemetery. My knees ache by the time I reach the top.
Sid's grave is easy to find — third row from the back, near the willow tree. His headstone is cracked, leaning to one side. His last name, Abernathy, is still clear enough to read.
I kneel down, brushing dirt from the stone. It scrapes against my palm, rough and familiar.
"Hey, Sid," I murmur, trying to sound lighter than I feel. "I brought lunch."
I set the cloth down on the grass and start unpacking. Two slices of stale bread, a lump of cheese, and an apple I swiped from the market. It's not much, but it's more than some families will eat today.
I set the flowers next to the stone, tucking the stems neatly beneath the bread. It feels wrong to eat without offering him something first.
The wind stirs, rustling the leaves. It almost sounds like he's laughing at me.
"Yeah, I know," I mutter, trying to smile. "It's not exactly a feast. You should be grateful I didn't bring oatmeal."
My voice wavers on the joke.
I clear my throat, picking at the bread.
"I think they're going to rig it," I whisper. The words feel dangerous, even here. I glance over my shoulder, half-expecting a Peacekeeper to step out from behind a headstone. My heart pounds so hard it hurts.
"I think they're going to pick me, Sid." My throat burns. "I'm scared."
The words spill out before I can stop them.
"I don't want to go." My voice is quieter now, barely more than a breath. "I'm not ready. There's still so much I want to do."
The words come faster, tumbling out like I won't get another chance to say them.
"I want to grow up. I want to fall in love again — for real, this time. I want to have kids without worrying someone's going to take them from me. I want the Games to stop. I want to understand why Mom did what she did. I want to forgive her."
My throat locks up. My eyes sting.
"I want Haymitch to talk to me again," I whisper. "I miss him, Sid. I miss you. And I hate that he won't even look at me anymore. It's like losing you wasn't enough — I..."
The bread feels like sawdust in my mouth. I set it down on the cloth, untouched.
"I don't want to die," I admit, and the truth of it leaves me shaking. "I know I pretend like I'm not scared, but I am. I'm terrified. Not of dying — not really — but of what comes after. I don't want to be one of those victors everyone crosses the street to avoid. I don't want to turn like Haymitch, or worse, turn into something the Capitol can use."
I blink hard, but the tears come anyway. Hot and fast.
"I don't want my friends to look at me like I'm dangerous. I don't want them to pull their kids away from me. I don't want to get banned from the Community Home or the Elder Center because people are scared of me."
The wind picks up again, tugging at my hair.
"It's not fair," I choke out. "It's not fair you're gone, and I'm still here."
The tears come harder now, and I can't stop them. My shoulders shake with the effort of holding it all in — the grief, the fear, the guilt.
"I miss you," I whisper, my voice barely audible. "I miss you so much."
The wind dies down. The cemetery falls silent again.
For a long time, I just sit there. The bread goes stale. The cheese softens in the heat.
When the tears finally stop, I pull the small, smooth stone from my pocket — the one I brought from the meadow. It's warm from where I've been holding it, and for a second, it feels like Sid's hand in mine.
I set it carefully beside the flowers.
"Goodbye, Sid," I whisper. "I love you."
The wind doesn't answer.
I pack up the untouched food. My legs are stiff when I stand, my knees aching from kneeling too long.
And for the first time in my life, I feel like I'm leaving my best friend behind.
I tuck the basket under the loose boards of an abandoned house near the cemetery. I'll come back for it later.
The square's already filling up by the time I get there. Not for the Reaping itself — that's still hours away — but because this is what we do. Every year. We meet up early, the same way we do before school, or before a harvest shift, or on the rare days we go on a trip to the mines.
If you ignore the way everyone's dressed too neatly. The way mothers clutch their children's hands a little too tightly. The way nobody really laughs.
I spot my friends near the old statue of the miner. It's chipped and broken, and someone's scrawled Capitol's Dog across the base in coal dust.
Cassian sees me first. He grins and waves, like today isn't today.
"Thought you were ditching us, Callie," he calls. "What, were you planning to sleep through the Reaping? Or were you too busy picking out your funeral clothes?"
"Ha-ha," I say dryly, but it pulls a smile out of me anyway. Cassian's always been the funny one — even when he shouldn't be. Especially when he shouldn't be.
Emory is next to him, arm looped around his waist. She's tall and wiry, her dark hair tied up in a braid that hangs over one shoulder. She leans into him like she belongs there. She probably does.
"Ignore him," she says, rolling her eyes. "He's been running his mouth all morning. Nerves."
"I'm not nervous," Cassian protests. "I'm excited. Maybe I'll finally get a chance to show off my combat skills." He throws a mock punch at Emory's shoulder. "I've been working on my right hook."
She doesn't even flinch. "Yeah, well, you better aim for their kneecaps, because that's all you're reaching."
The others laugh. Cassian flips her off, grinning.
I ease into the group, and for a second, it almost feels normal.
Joss is there too — standing just far enough from Cassian and Emory to make it clear he's third-wheeling. He catches my eye and looks away too fast, his face going red. I think he's liked me since we were kids. He's never said it outright, but he doesn't have to.
Next to him, Saul stands with his arms crossed. He's quieter, more serious. His family runs the butcher shop, which means he's stronger than he looks. I think he likes me too — but only because Joss does. He's the kind of boy who doesn't like to lose.
He and Joss never talk much anymore.
Delia's the last to show up, hair perfect, posture stiff. She looks me over like she's checking for weak spots.
"Nice coat," she says, voice dry as dust. "Trying to impress the Capitol cameras?"
"Trying to give the Capitol a heart attack," I shoot back.
Cassian snorts. Joss chuckles, too. Delia just rolls her eyes and looks away.
Ari — my best friend — jogs up, her hair a mess, cheeks pink like she ran all the way here.
"Sorry, sorry!" she says breathlessly. "Mom wanted to braid my hair, and I told her it didn't matter, and she started crying, and —"
She stops, blinking at the group. Her face falls, like she just remembered what day it is.
No one knows what to say to that.
The silence stretches.
It's Cassian who breaks it. "Alright," he says, voice too loud. "What's the plan? We're not just gonna stand here, right? Reaping doesn't start for hours. We could go to the slag heap. Or the meadow. One last adventure before someone gets carted off to die."
The words land too hard. No one laughs this time.
"Let's stay here," I say quietly. "Together."
They nod. One by one. Like they're relieved someone else made the choice.
We sit in a circle near the statue. Cassian talks about the time he stole a whole loaf of bread from the bakery and tried to blame it on Joss. Joss talks about the time they locked Saul in the butcher shop freezer for a dare. Ari tells a story about a prank we played on the schoolmaster — how he never figured out who replaced his ink with pig's blood.
For a while, it feels okay.
But people start leaving, one by one. Joss is the first to go, mumbling something about his sisters. Saul goes next. Emory pulls Cassian away by the hand. Delia doesn't say goodbye.
It's just me and Ari in the end.
She's quiet for a long time. "You think it's true?" she asks finally. "That they rig it?"
I swallow hard. I'm not supposed to know that, of course. Most people don't. They cling to the idea of luck, or fate, or the mercy of the Capitol's twisted gods. It's easier that way. Easier to believe it's a roll of the dice than to admit the board is rigged before the game even starts.
But I've seen too much to pretend. I remember Haymitch's Reaping — the way the mayor wouldn't look his mother in the eyes when they called his name. And the year they sent that girl, Marla, who volunteered even though she was twelve and sickly and couldn't possibly have chosen it herself. Her father got a new job at the mines after that. A safer one.
The Capitol picks the tributes they want. The drawing is just a show. And girls like me — girls who ask too many questions, who belong to the wrong kind of families — don't get lucky.
I've made peace with it.
Mostly.
I look at Ari, and something sharp twists in my chest. I don't want this to be the last time I see her. Or any of them.
"Promise me something," I say suddenly.
She blinks. "What?"
"Promise me we'll stick together. No matter what. Even if… even if I or you get picked." My voice shakes, but I push through it. "Promise me you won't forget me."
Her eyes shine. "I won't."
I don't believe her. Not really. But I nod anyway.
Because maybe it's easier that way.
The square is quieter than I've ever heard it. Even the wind seems to hold its breath.
The new mayor stands on the stage, straight-backed and stiff in his pressed black suit. His voice is smooth, practiced. Too polished for District 12.
"Happy Hunger Games," he begins, and I can already tell he doesn't mean it. No one ever does, but at least my mother didn't pretend to.
Mayor Whitlaw — a man who's been in District 12 barely a year — speaks like someone who belongs in the Capitol, not here. He doesn't look like us, doesn't move like us. His clothes are too clean. His hair too neat. His words too hollow.
I can't stop staring at his hands. They're soft, unblemished. He's never held a pickaxe or a shovel, never scrubbed coal dust from under his fingernails until his skin went raw. He has no business leading this district.
Not like my mother did.
Andrea Allister didn't need speeches to hold this place together. She knew every name, every face. She never forgot birthdays. She always found a way to make things stretch — a bag of grain here, a medical supply shipment that "accidentally" ended up in our part of the district instead of the Capitol's clinics. I used to help her with the paperwork late into the night, my handwriting sloppier than hers but good enough to pass.
I remember the time she made the Peacekeepers let Emory's brother, Jax, go after he was caught sneaking food from the bakery. They whipped him anyway, but they didn't take his hand. They were going to. She stopped them.
She couldn't stop everything, though.
I used to think she could.
I didn't understand why she died. Not at first. I woke up that morning, and she was just… gone. They called it suicide. People whispered about it, said she'd given up after Haymitch's Games, after the Quarter Quell announcement. But I know better now. The more I think about it, the more it looks like a warning.
And even after all that — even with the shame of her death hanging over our heads like the noose that killed her— people still talk to me like I'm her. The butcher's wife slips me extra scraps when no one's looking. The schoolmaster asks me if my grandmother needs more medicine. Saul's mother stopped me in the market last week, pulled me aside, and told me to "keep my head down" because "things feel off this year."
They still trust me. They still tell me things.
Mayor Whitlaw doesn't know that. He doesn't know this district at all. He stands up there and recites the same lines my mother once did, but his words feel wrong. Cold.
"Our tributes this year will honor District 12 with their courage, their strength, and their sacrifice."
It's a joke.
We don't have strength. We don't have courage. We have kids who hope they won't die screaming.
My mother never used that word — sacrifice. She never pretended this was anything other than what it is: a punishment.
Mayor Whitlaw drones on about unity and tradition and the everlasting strength of Panem. I stop listening.
It's not strength to survive when you don't have a choice. It's endurance. There's a difference.
My mother knew that too. She never said it outright — she couldn't — but I heard it in the way she talked to people after a whipping or a mine collapse. She didn't call them strong. She called them brave. Strength doesn't leave room for grief or fear. Bravery does.
Whitlaw wouldn't understand that. He wouldn't understand how hard it is to stand in this square and watch someone you love get taken away. How hard it is to know it might be you, and to come anyway.
His speech ends, finally, and he steps back from the microphone.
For half a second, everything is quiet.
Then Effie Trinket takes the stage.
She's brighter than I remember — her dress an explosion of teal and magenta, her hair a swirl of curls piled high on her head. She beams at the crowd like we're all gathered here for a festival, not an execution.
"Welcome, welcome!" she says, her voice chirping like a songbird that doesn't realize it's in a cage.
I don't hate her, not exactly. I know she doesn't really understand what happens to us after we leave this square. It's like those kids earlier who are too young to understand. Only Effie Trinket isn't young enough to use that excuse. I don't think she lets herself understand. It's easier for her that way.
It's easier for all of them that way.
She prattles on about the Capitol and its generosity, and I feel my stomach twist. Generosity. Like they're giving us a gift by dragging two of us to the slaughterhouse.
Effie reaches into the glass bowl and pulls out the first slip.
She unfolds it slowly, carefully, the way you might unwrap a delicate gift.
And when she reads the name, I already know it's going to be mine.
"Acalia Allister."