I roll around in my bed, wide awake, trying to fall back asleep. It’s the day. The day of the 53rd Annual Hunger Games. Am I nervous? Of course. But I keep telling myself my name won’t be drawn. For four years it’s been in the reaping and never once picked. I try not to imagine what would happen if it was. Winning? Not a chance. Sure, I know how to fix an engine — everyone in District 6 does — but fighting? Killing? I could never. I’m not built for that. I stare at the ceiling above me. The paint is cracked, and the pipes hum faintly through the walls. The smell of oil and smoke lingers from Dad’s late shift, heavy and familiar. Three knocks break the silence. Mom. I drag myself out of bed and open the door. “Hey,” I say, trying to sound calm. She’s smiling, really smiling. Does she not remember what day it is? “You’re in a good mood,” I say cautiously. “I am!” She hugs me tight. “I have something for you.” Before I can ask what, she grabs my hand and pulls me down the hallway. “No peeking!” she chirps, covering my eyes as we step into her room. Something cool and light is pressed into my palm. “You can open your eyes now.” When I do, I see it — a thin silver necklace with a tiny gear charm that catches the morning light. “It’s for good luck,” she says. “It’s been in the family for years. My mother wore it, then me, and now it’s your turn.” I run my thumb over the charm. The metal is worn smooth in places, rough in others — real, solid, and old. “Wow,” I whisper. “Thank you, Mom.” She beams as I hug her. “I love you,” I mutter into her shoulder. She holds me a little longer than usual before letting go. “Now,” she says softly, “time to get ready for the reaping.” I sigh. Every year she makes a big deal out of it — wash everything, fix my hair, make sure I look “presentable for the cameras.” As if the Capitol actually cares what we look like down here. Still, I let her. An hour later, my skin smells faintly of soap instead of grease, my hair is slicked back with a bit of oil to keep it neat, and my lips are tinted pale pink. When I look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. After Dad leaves for work — another day at the repair yard — I sit at the table and stare at the old clock on the wall. Thirty minutes until the reaping. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Each second drags on forever. Finally, it’s time. Mom and I walk toward the town square. The air smells like metal and fuel, and the low rumble of trains passing in the distance fills the silence. Mom squeezes my hand before stepping off to stand with the adults. I join the line of girls my age. In front of me, two younger boys fidget nervously, grease stains still on their sleeves, trying to look brave. It makes me sick. It’s disgusting they make children fight to the death. It’s disgusting the Games exist at all.
