After what feels like forever, it’s finally my turn. I walk up to the table where the Peacekeepers sit and press my finger forward. The machine hums, pricking me quick and sharp. A red dot blooms on my skin before they wave me away like I’m just another number. I move to where the other girls are standing, scanning the crowd for my best friend, Kira. The moment I spot her, I wave. “Hey!” I call. She turns and waves back, grinning. “Cass!” Kira says, a little too loud, but that’s just Kira. We met back in fifth grade and have been inseparable ever since. She’s loud, brave, and endlessly talkative. I’m the opposite of her in every way, but somehow we just work. I hug her tightly and take my place beside her. “Ready for the reaping?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. She sighs. “Yeah, I guess. I just hope it’s not me.” Kira has her name in five times this year. I only have four. It doesn’t make much difference, we both know anyone’s name could be called. Before I can answer, a small body squeezes between us, Pax, Kira’s 13-year-old brother. I shift over to make room for him. “Hi, Kira,” he says, ignoring me completely. He never liked me, and honestly, the feeling’s mutual. While they talk, I let my eyes wander across the square. Every kid looks the same — pale, tired, terrified. I can feel it too, the fear hanging in the air like smoke. My heart beats too fast. Then my gaze catches on a boy standing a few rows over — jet-black hair, olive skin, eyes dark and hollow. For a second, we lock eyes. I quickly look down at my feet. A few minutes later, the Capitol escort walks onstage, her voice slicing through the noise. She’s wearing a blinding yellow dress, and her long blue hair shines under the sunlight. “Hello, everyone!” she shrieks into the microphone. I wince and cover my ears. “Does she have to be that loud?” I mutter. “Welcome to the Fifty-Third Annual Hunger Games!” she continues, too cheerful for a day like this. I roll my eyes. Can we just get this over with already? “We’ll start with the ladies!” she chirps. Her gloved hand dips into the glass bowl and swirls the slips of paper around like it’s some kind of game. The square goes silent. “The female tribute of the Fifty-Third Hunger Games is…” She pauses. I swear my heart stops. “Cassandra Thorne!” Everything freezes. My stomach drops. My ears ring. Did she just say my name? Peacekeepers move before I can. One grabs my arm, pulling me forward. I hear Kira’s scream, raw and broken — and my mother’s voice somewhere in the crowd, but it all sounds far away. They drag me toward the stage. I feel sick. My knees wobble. I can barely breathe. “Excellent!” the woman onstage giggles. She giggles. I just got picked to die, and she giggles. What is wrong with her? “Now for the male tribute!” she trills, reaching back into the bowl. She unfolds another slip of paper and beams. “Pax Pike!”
