It was a warm spring afternoon, apple tree in bloom as the sun's rays filtered amiably through the stony clouds. The lawn was budding green, after so many years of drought. "Catch!" giggled Jesse, youth-round face beaming beneath that shock of dark hair. The worn, leather soccer ball arced through the faded sky, upsetting several flittering moths. At eight years old, he was becoming a whiz at ball games. I leaped for it, but it was far too high, and landed over the fence, entangling in the bushes on the near side of the heifer paddock.

"Race you, Jay-Jay!" cried Noah without missing a beat. She always used to beat me in those long cross-country races held at school—by the end my chest would feel so icy, my throat so scraped up that the finish line was hardly an enticement. Learning from Bonnie that these symptoms were of tiny little air pockets in your lungs bursting was an added horror. It's not that I was bad at those races: I did average compared to most others. But I've never been one for physical competition—except riding—especially when my sister was so smug about beating me. She'd go on about her stamina, her favourite word then. It's funny, thinking on these things now: all the anger and annoyance I once felt for my sister has melted like snow into an aching fondness. Oh, what I'd give for another teasing jab, just one last roll of the eyes. My sister, my pretty, clever, sister. My mirror image.

Anyway. When she challenged me, then, I did race her. Scampering through the half-living grass and scraggly dandelions, hopping over the rusted wire fence and darting for the bushes, I fished out the ball before she even touched the paddock. Needless to say, I was incredibly proud, and my family were not quick to hear the last of it. Jesse congratulated me on my speed, and even Mama, who was outside fixing the roof tiles, was impressed. "Maybe that's why Papa calls her Jackrabbit," Dalton said sagely, looking up from the stick he'd been trailing through the cool earth.

"Or maybe it's because she's such a crybaby!" shrieked Noah. But I laughed along. I didn't care; I'd just found a new talent. And ever since then I've prided myself on my short distance running. How I bolt like a jackrabbit.

Only problem is, hunger games arenas don't tend to be "short distance." I'm endurant enough if I really put my mind to it, though not compared to the rest of my family. I can walk for quite a while, but I won't be surprised if some cover a lot more ground than me. Or does that not really matter? Did Tim mean to suggest how quickly I can get away from the Cornucopia? Because I can do that. Unless there's a lot of space between it and whatever hiding spots there are. One year, the whole arena was a flat plane, a few measly shrubs forming the only landmarks.

"Jackie?" Tim prompts.

"What? Oh, runnin'. Yeah. I run fast. Well, short distance."

"Hm. And can you hide?"

I was always excellent at hide and seek—in the house, in the woods, in the fields, the stables, wherever. Eleanor was the only one who could beat me.

"Yeah. I can hide good."

An approving nod from Tim does little to soothe my misgivings. Sure, I'll get more sponsors this way, but not for long if—when—I'm brutally murdered.

"Listen-Am I supposed to head to the Cornucopia, or just turn tail? Or do I find people first, or should I—"

"Musky and I've been talkin'. We'll tell your strategy tomorrow. Just need to iron out the creases, you know."

I can't think of what to say, but I must say something. I stand there, looking up at him, his dark hair, brown skin and eyes so common in the abattoirs.

"Well. Off to bed," he says after a moment of silence.

"I—wait—Tim."

"Yeah?"

I'm worried he looks annoyed. Am I asking too many questions?

"What did you get for your training score?" I blurt out the question, not having thought it through.

"In my games, you mean?" I see a flicker of something cross his face and immediately regret asking. How rude, to remind him of something so terrible? But then I remember I'm doomed to the same fate, except worse, and that makes me feel a little more justified.

Tim replies lowly, evenly, "I got a seven." I don't know what I was hoping for: 'cause it's lower, I'm worried he only survived 'cause he didn't have a target on his back. But if it'd been higher, I guess I'd stress about him having had more sponsors.

"Listen, Jackie," he sighs, and for a moment he looks very, very tired. "Your cards've been dealt. Now you gotta play 'em. Eight's a good score. In your interview, you'll act mysterious about it, won't show off. Good for sponsors, but won't interest the other tributes. See? We got plans. There's downsides to everything. In these games, you can't win. Just can't. Sure, you can be victor, but no one has ever won the Hunger Games. That's what all us survivors know. I—" He cuts his own rambling short with the shake of the head.

"Do as I said, get some sleep." He gives me a smile. There's that exhaustion again. Or maybe it's always been there, settled in the lines of his face. Like dust in a Wanderer's . Maybe I've just been too preoccupied to see.

Yet another groggy, sweaty, disoriented wakeup is quickly succeeded by a surge of adrenaline like a knife to the chest. The palpitations distract me from the nightmares I woke up with. I'm quick to forget them—for the most part—when faced with the superior horrors of real life.

All day today is dedicated just to preparing the tributes for the interviews. We do quick run-downs of our angles over breakfast, then Swinnart goes off to be lectured by Oswald Blaustein on presentation, while I rehearse with Tim. Musky, meanwhile, wanders between Swinnart and I to supervise, chats to the stylists and completes whatever other work a mentor does behind the scenes. According to Tim, they stopped letting her coach for interviews after her first few times, 'cause she'd always get fed up with the kids.

Three hours drag by, but by the end of it I'm feeling distinctly unprepared. Once I got over the initial embarrassment of acting out an interview—which took a good 45 minutes—and finally grasped what it truly meant to have enough of a plan to be prepared but little enough to be adaptable—also taking a while—I didn't do so bad, or at least Tim said. But I just couldn't seem to strike a balance, apparently, between awkwardness and plainness. Then again, he claimed, Caesar Flickerman is a much better interviewer than him, and can make most everyone look decent.

It's time to swap over now. As I walk over to where Blaustein's been tutoring Swinnart, I'm already feeling pretty low. Swinnart looks worse, his feet trailing on the floor as he walks. His face is sort of grey. I swear, this kid is like one of those things they have at markets—what are they called? Oh, yeah. Mood rings.

As soon as I take a seat, it becomes clear how Blaustein managed to fill three hours teaching manners alone. There's not much to it, right? Wrong. Turns out, all the table manners Meemaw taught me are rudimentary-primal, even-in the eyes of the Capitol. And Blaustein's already looking hassled—it's not like he has an easy job of it. I can't help but feel a little guilty when for the fifth time I forget to tap the arm of the chair before I sit, a Capitol courtesy ritual apparently originating in the dark days, or something. Until I remember he's simply prettying me up for a cockfight.

I learn to hold my skirt high but not too high as I walk, to prance about in heels without stumbling, to sit 'like a lady', which I find entails holding the back straight, head high and legs tight shut. I'm not allowed to lean back on a chair, which in my opinion defeats the whole purpose of one, I must hold my hands 'delicately' in my lap, and I can't touch my face. Unless I'm covering it to laugh, blush, or, god forbid, yawn, in which case there's a special way to do so. I'm allowed to stroke my hair a little, but just enough to seem 'dainty', not so much that I look like I'm 'petting a lap-dog'. No fidgeting, which is a struggle. But these and more are all only the basics, as I find out over an hour in once I complete a successful run-through. To appear especially 'sweet' and 'feminine', I have to bat my eyelashes and look down at all the right times, but up with my eyes. I'm allowed to fidget, now—supposed to, in fact-but only at specific times. I become acquainted with crying pretty and smiling all cute and abashed. But I'm not supposed to over-do it. Oh, and my feet are apart now, and my heels are off the floor, but knees are firmly together. And Blaustein seems a bit obsessed with "ankle-angles", which are apparently a big deal. They're supposed to indicate whether a girl is single, married, a virgin, a prostitute, a flirt, rich, poor, mean, nice, everything and anything under the sun. I'm certain no one else knows of this elaborate code; is Blaustein just playing tricks on me? But I do as I'm told, until his watch cuckoos and he rushes me out the door.

He follows me to the stylists' rooms, and I think he might continue lecturing me while I'm getting lathered up and whatnot, but he instead barges into the boys' changing room, opening the door on a very naked Swinnart, whom I quickly avert my eyes from.

It's strange, since I'm sure the boy must have less to learn considering that he's, well, a boy. But then again, he is from the roosts. Swinnart must know hardly anything about this stuff. Not that that's a bad thing; of course it's not. I never cared for pointless rules like these. But I wonder, as the flock of birds caw and claw and strip me down and make me up, how often Blaustein gets to talk about his ankle-angles. Considering most from his district will be like Swinnart, due to tesserae and population ratios and all. I guess he did seem rather enthusiastic about them.

My nails end up a rosy pink; my cheeks, eyelids, collarbones, elbows, knees and knuckles are spared no rouge; and they actually attach some sorts of extensions to my eyelashes. Whatever Musketta said to Goneril and the stylists, it must've been pretty effective, because they're going all out on the innocence angle. My hair is treated with some sort of stinking chemical that makes it all glossy, and straightened to make it longer. Two even, red-ribboned pigtails soon appear, and then we wait and wait and wait until Goneril finally arrives, thirteen minutes late. Unlucky number.

"Since your mentors have such an idea in their heads about my tributes' costumes—" she slaps an avox on the wrist, who drops a hot pink suit-carrier and hurries out of the room "—I've had to modify things a little." She delivers the words with unnecessary venom, as if any of this were my fault. But that's okay—because when she unzips the garment bag, it's a vast improvement from the parade night. Not good by any means, but better.

A cream crushed velvet night dress edged with tacky, lacy red ribbon. A faux cowhide corset belt and matching pointed slip-ons. Velvet is absolutely the wrong choice for what's clearly meant to be a simple, quaint sort of dress, and the cowhide pattern is quickly becoming repetitive. But at least this time I don't have a tail. The finishing touch is another red ribbon, this time finding a place around my neck. As if my throat were cut. A sacrificial lamb. Is that some sort of intentional subliminal messaging by the Capitol? No, surely not. They wouldn't go to all that effort. Yes, they would. They construct huge elaborate arenas every year just to kill kids. But I brought on this whole red thing, by wearing it on reaping day. A tasteless choice, in hindsight. And I've seen people wearing chokers around here; they must be in fashion. Fuck, I'm so paranoid. I think I'm going crazy.