I have to survive. Arbor has to survive. These are the two things pounding in my head when Arbor enters the dining train compartment. “Hey,” I say softly. “Hi there,” he says back. There’s just utter silence for a minute as we soak in what’s happening to us. We’re being shipped off to a foreign place where we’ll be placed in an arena, videotaped, and instructed to kill each other. So fun, right? Not too ideal for a sixteen year old girl, am I right? I really don’t want to go into the arena. I wish I could just… escape. With Arbor. Into the forest. We could never be seen again. Just go and pretend we were killed by the other tributes before the game even started. He provides for his two little sisters. We could make it. We could do it. But I just can’t. The risk of getting caught is too big. But the risk of death in the Hunger Games is bigger. I can’t do it. I won’t be able to win. To save Arbor. Little chance that we’ll both escape these treacherously evil games. But there’s never really escaping. Because when you win, you’ll be glorified as the golden killer. And who wants that? It’s just me and my thoughts until I realize Arbor’s gazing at my face very intently. “What?” I ask. “Nothing. It’s just, your eyes are really pretty. They have so much depth. You stare into them and you can get lost in them, like a vortex of dark blue clouds swirling about.” Arbor says with such precision and entrancing language that sometimes I think he could be a better poet than me. “Well thanks, I’m quite flattered,” I respond. “It’s always nice when a poet complements you.” “Oh, stop. You know who the real poet is here,” he teases. I smile. “Of course I do, it’s you,” I say. “Nope. Evidently you don’t,” he tells me. “If I don’t, then-“ I stop midway. I just have a very absurd thought that relates to him passing, and makes me long for him to stay alive and makes me want to go right up to him and hold him forevermore. “We’re going to be okay.” He tells me. “Promise?” I ask. “Promise.” He says. And then suddenly, we hug. Like best friends. Because we are. We’re best friends. And we protect each other. Suddenly, a brown-haired girl, who probably isn't more than 22 years old, and a blonde man who's probably in his 30s come out from one of the train compartments near us and I jump out of my skin. I quickly separate from Arbor and he does the same with me. We quickly sit down on the red velvet chairs in the train car. They don’t seem to notice. Or care, for that matter. The man starts talking. "Hey. I'm Oakley, and this is Rowan. We're your mentors." I notice the wear and tear on Oakley's face. A scar here and there, and if he is 30, he looks older than most 30 year olds. Why? And then it hits me. The Hunger Games did this to them. It aged them. It forced them to grow up faster. It made it so they'd never be able to be a normal child. It ruined them.
