the hunger games uk

8/3/2019 The Hunger Games UK

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Praise for the Hunger Games Trilogy:

I was so obsessed with this book . . .

The Hunger Games is amazing

Stephenie Meyer

As close to a perect adventure novel

as Ive ever read

Rick Riordan

Terriying and exhilarating

Sunday Telegraph

Stunning

The Times

Constant suspense . . . I couldnt stop reading

Stephen King

Endlessly entertaining

L.A. Times

Brilliantly plotted and perectly pacedJohn Green, New York Times

One o the best written and most thought-provoking

books Ive read or a long time

Anthony Horowitz

Rip-roaring, bare-knuckle adventure

o the best kind

The Times


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For James Proimos


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Part IThe Tributes


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1

When I wake up, the other side o the bed is cold. My

ingers stretch out, seeking Prims warmth but inding

only the rough canvas cover o the mattress. She must

have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother.

O course she did. This is the day o the reaping.

I prop mysel up on one elbow. Theres enough

light in the bedroom to see them. My little sister, Prim,

curled up on her side, cocooned in my mothers body,

their cheeks pressed together. In sleep, my motherlooks younger, still worn but not so beaten-down.

Prims ace is as resh as a raindrop, as lovely as the

primrose or which she was named. My mother was

very beautiul once, too. Or so they tell me.

Sitting at Prims knees, guarding her, is the worlds

ugliest cat. Mashed-in nose, hal o one ear missing,

eyes the colour o rotting squash. Prim named him

3


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Buttercup, insisting that his muddy yellow coat

matched the bright lower. He hates me. Or at least

distrusts me. Even though it was years ago, I think hestill remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket

when Prim brought him home. Scrawny kitten, belly

swollen with worms, crawling with leas. The last

thing I needed was another mouth to eed. But Prim

begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. It

turned out OK. My mother got rid o the vermin and

hes a born mouser. Even catches the occasional rat.

Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I eed Buttercup the

entrails. He has stopped hissing at me.

Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever

come to love.

I swing my legs o the bed and slide into my

hunting boots. Supple leather that has moulded to my

eet. I pull on trousers, a shirt, tuck my long dark braid

up into a cap, and grab my orage bag. On the table,

under a wooden bowl to protect it rom hungry ratsand cats alike, sits a perect little goats cheese wrapped

in basil leaves. Prims git to me on reaping day. I put

the cheese careully in my pocket as I slip outside.

Our part o District 12, nicknamed the Seam, is

usually crawling with coal miners heading out to the

morning shit at this hour. Men and women with

hunched shoulders, swollen knuckles, many o whom


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out o District 12. Inside the woods they roam reely,

and there are added concerns like venomous snakes,

rabid animals, and no real paths to ollow. But theresalso ood i you know how to ind it. My ather knew

and he taught me some ways beore he was blown to

bits in a mine explosion. There was nothing let o him

to bury. I was eleven then. Five years later, I still wake

up screaming or him to run.

Even though trespassing in the woods is illegal and

poaching carries the severest o penalties, more people

would risk it i they had weapons. But most are not

bold enough to venture out with just a knie. My bow

is a rarity, crated by my ather along with a ew others

that I keep well hidden in the woods, careully wrapped

in waterproo covers. My ather could have made good

money selling them, but i the oicials ound out he

would have been publicly executed or inciting a

rebellion. Most o the Peacekeepers turn a blind eye to

the ew o us who hunt because theyre as hungry orresh meat as anybody is. In act, theyre among our best

customers. But the idea that someone might be arming

the Seam would never have been allowed.

In the autumn, a ew brave souls sneak into the

woods to harvest apples. But always in sight o the

Meadow. Always close enough to run back to the

saety o District 12 i trouble arises. District Twelve.


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Where you can starve to death in saety, I mutter.

Then I glance quickly over my shoulder. Even here,

even in the middle o nowhere, you worry someonemight overhear you.

When I was younger, I scared my mother to death,

the things I would blurt out about District 12, about

the people who rule our country, Panem, rom the ar-

o city called the Capitol. Eventually I understood

this would only lead us to more trouble. So I learned

to hold my tongue and to turn my eatures into an

indierent mask so that no one could ever read my

thoughts. Do my work quietly in school. Make only

polite small talk in the public market. Discuss little

more than trades in the Hob, which is the black market

where I make most o my money. Even at home, where

I am less pleasant, I avoid discussing tricky topics. Like

the reaping, or ood shortages, or the Hunger Games.

Prim might begin to repeat my words, and then where

would we be?In the woods waits the only person with whom I

can be mysel. Gale. I can eel the muscles in my ace

relaxing, my pace quickening as I climb the hills to

our place, a rock ledge overlooking a valley. A thicket

o berry bushes protects it rom unwanted eyes. The

sight o him waiting there brings on a smile. Gale says

I never smile except in the woods.


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Hey, Catnip, says Gale. My real name is Katniss,

but when I irst told him, I had barely whispered it. So

he thought Id said Catnip. Then when this crazy lynxstarted ollowing me around the woods looking or

handouts, it became his oicial nickname or me. I

inally had to kill the lynx because he scared o game.

I almost regretted it because he wasnt bad company.

But I got a decent price or his pelt.

Look what I shot. Gale holds up a loa o bread

with an arrow stuck in it, and I laugh. Its real bakery

bread, not the lat, dense loaves we make rom our

grain rations. I take it in my hands, pull out the arrow,

and hold the puncture in the crust to my nose, inhaling

the ragrance that makes my mouth lood with saliva.

Fine bread like this is or special occasions.

Mm, still warm, I say. He must have been at the

bakery at the crack o dawn to trade or it. What did

it cost you?

Just a squirrel. Think the old man was eelingsentimental this morning, says Gale. Even wished

me luck.

Well, we all eel a little closer today, dont we? I

say, not even bothering to roll my eyes. Prim let us a

cheese. I pull it out.

His expression brightens at the treat. Thank you,

Prim. Well have a real east. Suddenly he alls into a


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Capitol accent as he mimics Eie Trinket, the

maniacally upbeat woman who arrives once a year to

read out the names at the reaping. I almost orgot!Happy Hunger Games! He plucks a ew blackberries

rom the bushes around us. And may the odds He

tosses a berry in a high arc towards me.

I catch it in my mouth and break the delicate skin

with my teeth. The sweet tartness explodes across my

tongue. be everin your avour! I inish with equal

verve. We have to joke about it because the alternative

is to be scared out o your wits. Besides, the Capitol

accent is so aected, almost anything sounds unny

in it.

I watch as Gale pulls out his knie and slices the

bread. He could be my brother. Straight black hair,

olive skin; we even have the same grey eyes. But were

not related, at least not closely. Most o the amilies

who work the mines resemble one another this way.

Thats why my mother and Prim, with their lighthair and blue eyes, always look out o place. They are.

My mothers parents were part o the small merchant

class that caters to oicials, Peacekeepers and the

occasional Seam customer. They ran an apothecary

shop in the nicer part o District 12. Since almost no

one can aord doctors, apothecaries are our healers.

My ather got to know my mother because on his


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I dont know how to respond. The idea is so

preposterous.

I we didnt have so many kids, he adds quickly.Theyre not our kids, o course. But they might as

well be. Gales two little brothers and a sister. Prim.

And you may as well throw in our mothers, too,

because how would they live without us? Who would

ill those mouths that are always asking or more? With

both o us hunting daily, there are still nights when

game has to be swapped or lard or shoelaces or wool,

still nights when we go to bed with our stomachs

growling.

I never want to have kids, I say.

I might. I I didnt live here, says Gale.

But you do, I say, irritated.

Forget it, he snaps back.

The conversation eels all wrong. Leave? How

could I leave Prim, who is the only person in the world

Im certain I love? And Gale is devoted to his amily.We cant leave, so why bother talking about it? And

even i we did . . . even i we did . . . where did this

stu about having kids come rom? Theres never been

anything romantic between Gale and me. When we

met, I was a skinny twelve-year-old, and although he

was only two years older, he already looked like a man.

It took a long time or us to even become riends, to


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stop haggling over every trade and begin helping each

other out.

Besides, i he wants kids, Gale wont have anytrouble inding a wie. Hes good-looking, hes strong

enough to handle the work in the mines, and he can

hunt. You can tell by the way the girls whisper about

him when he walks by in school that they want him. It

makes me jealous, but not or the reason people would

think. Good hunting partners are hard to ind.

What do you want to do? I ask. We can hunt,

ish or gather.

Lets ish at the lake. We can leave our poles and

gather in the woods. Get something nice or tonight,

he says.

Tonight. Ater the reaping, everyone is supposed to

celebrate. And a lot o people do, out o relie that their

children have been spared or another year. But at least

two amilies will pull their shutters, lock their doors,

and try to igure out how they will survive the painulweeks to come.

We do well. The predators ignore us on a day when

easier, tastier prey abounds. By late morning, we have

a dozen ish, a bag o greens and, best o all, a large

quantity o strawberries. I ound the patch a ew years

ago, but Gale had the idea to string mesh nets around

it to keep out the animals.


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On the way home, we swing by the Hob, the black

market that operates in an abandoned warehouse that

once held coal. When they came up with a moreeicient system that transported the coal directly rom

the mines to the trains, the Hob gradually took over

the space. Most businesses are closed by this time on

reaping day, but the black markets still airly busy. We

easily trade six o the ish or good bread, the other

two or salt. Greasy Sae, the bony old woman who sells

bowls o hot soup rom a large kettle, takes hal the

greens o our hands in exchange or a couple o

chunks o parain. We might do a tad better elsewhere,

but we make an eort to keep on good terms with

Greasy Sae. Shes the only one who can consistently be

counted on to buy wild dog. We dont hunt them on

purpose, but i youre attacked and you take out a dog

or two, well, meat is meat. Once its in the soup, Ill

call it bee, Greasy Sae says with a wink. No one in

the Seam would turn up their nose at a good leg owild dog, but the Peacekeepers who come to the Hob

can aord to be a little choosier.

When we inish our business at the market, we go

to the back door o the mayors house to sell hal the

strawberries, knowing he has a particular ondness or

them and can aord our price. The mayors daughter,

Madge, opens the door. Shes in my year at school.


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Being the mayors daughter, youd expect her to be a

snob, but shes all right. She just keeps to hersel. Like

me. Since neither o us really has a group o riends, weseem to end up together a lot at school. Eating lunch,

sitting next to each other at assemblies, partnering or

sports activities. We rarely talk, which suits us both

just ine.

Today her drab school outit has been replaced by

an expensive white dress, and her blonde hair is done

up with a pink ribbon. Reaping clothes.

Pretty dress, says Gale.

Madge shoots him a look, trying to see i its a

genuine compliment or i hes just being ironic. It is a

pretty dress, but she would never be wearing it

ordinarily. She presses her lips together and then smiles.

Well, i I end up going to the Capitol, I want to look

nice, dont I?

Now its Gales turn to be conused. Does she mean

it? Or is she messing with him? Im guessing thesecond.

You wont be going to the Capitol, says Gale

coolly. His eyes land on a small circular pin that adorns

her dress. Real gold. Beautiully crated. It could

keep a amily in bread or months. What can you

have? Five entries? I had six when I was just twelve

years old.


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Thats not her ault, I say.

No, its no ones ault. Just the way it is, says

Gale.Madges ace has become closed o. She puts the

money or the berries in my hand. Good luck,

Katniss.

You, too, I say, and the door closes.

We walk towards the Seam in silence. I dont like

that Gale took a dig at Madge, but hes right, o course.

The reaping system is unair, with the poor getting the

worst o it. You become eligible or the reaping the day

you turn twelve. That year, your name is entered once.

At thirteen, twice. And so on and so on until you

reach the age o eighteen, the inal year o eligibility,

when your name goes into the pool seven times. Thats

true or every citizen in all twelve districts in the entire

country o Panem.

But heres the catch. Say you are poor and starving,

as we were. You can opt to add your name more timesin exchange or tesserae. Each tessera is worth a meagre

years supply o grain and oil or one person. You may

do this or each o your amily members as well. So, at

the age o twelve, I had my name entered our times.

Once because I had to, and three times or tesserae or

grain and oil or mysel, Prim and my mother. In act,

every year I have needed to do this. And the entries are


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cumulative. So now, at the age o sixteen, my name

will be in the reaping twenty times. Gale, who is

eighteen and has been either helping or single-handedly eeding a amily o ive or seven years, will

have his name in orty-two times.

You can see why someone like Madge, who has

never been at risk o needing a tessera, can set him o.

The chance o her name being drawn is very slim

compared to those o us who live in the Seam. Not

impossible, but slim. And even though the rules were

set up by the Capitol, not the districts, certainly not

Madges amily, its hard not to resent those who dont

have to sign up or tesserae.

Gale knows his anger at Madge is misdirected. On

other days, deep in the woods, Ive listened to him rant

about how the tesserae are just another tool to cause

misery in our district. A way to plant hatred between

the starving workers o the Seam and those who can

generally count on supper; and thereby ensure we willnever trust one another. Its to the Capitols advantage

to have us divided among ourselves, he might say i

there were no ears to hear but mine. I it wasnt reaping

day. I a girl with a gold pin and no tesserae had not

made what Im sure she thought was a harmless

comment.

As we walk, I glance over at Gales ace, still


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smouldering underneath his stony expression. His

rages seem pointless to me, although I never say so. Its

not that I dont agree with him. I do. But what good isyelling about the Capitol in the middle o the woods?

It doesnt change anything. It doesnt make things air.

It doesnt ill our stomachs. In act, it scares o the

nearby game. I let him yell, though. Better he does it

in the woods than in the district.

Gale and I divide our spoils, leaving two ish, a

couple o loaves o good bread, greens, a ew handuls

o strawberries, salt, parain and a bit o money or

each o us.

See you in the square, I say.

Wear something pretty, he says latly.

At home, I ind my mother and sister are ready to

go. My mother wears a ine dress rom her apothecary

days. Prim is in my irst reaping outit, a skirt and

ruled blouse. Its a bit big on her, but my mother has

made it stay with pins. Even so, shes having troublekeeping the blouse tucked in at the back.

A tub o warm water waits or me. I scrub o the

dirt and sweat rom the woods and even wash my hair.

To my surprise, my mother has laid out one o her own

lovely dresses or me. A sot blue thing with matching

shoes.

Are you sure? I ask. Im trying to get past


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rejecting oers o help rom her. For a while, I was so

angry, I wouldnt allow her to do anything or me.

And this is something special. Her clothes rom herpast are very precious to her.

O course. Lets put your hair up, too, she says. I

let her towel-dry it and braid it up on my head. I can

hardly recognize mysel in the cracked mirror that

leans against the wall.

You look beautiul, says Prim in a hushed voice.

And nothing like mysel, I say. I hug her, because

I know these next ew hours will be terrible or her.

Her irst reaping. Shes about as sae as you can get,

since shes only entered once. I wouldnt let her take

out any tesserae. But shes worried about me. That the

unthinkable might happen.

I protect Prim in every way I can, but Im powerless

against the reaping. The anguish I always eel when

shes in pain wells up in my chest and threatens to

register on my ace. I notice her blouse has pulled outo her skirt in the back again and orce mysel to stay

calm. Tuck your tail in, little duck, I say, smoothing

the blouse back in place.

Prim giggles and gives me a small Quack.

Quack yoursel, I say with a light laugh. The kind

only Prim can draw out o me. Come on, lets eat, I

say and plant a quick kiss on the top o her head.


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The ish and greens are already cooking in a stew,

but that will be or supper. We decide to save the

strawberries and bakery bread or this evenings meal,to make it special, we say. Instead we drink milk rom

Prims goat, Lady, and eat the rough bread made rom

the tessera grain, although no one has much appetite

anyway.

At one oclock, we head or the square. Attendance

is mandatory unless you are on deaths door. This

evening, o icials will come around and check to see i

this is the case. I not, youll be imprisoned.

Its too bad, really, that they hold the reaping in the

square one o the ew places in District 12 that can be

pleasant. The squares surrounded by shops, and on

public market days, especially i theres good weather, it

has a holiday eel to it. But today, despite the bright

banners hanging on the buildings, theres an air o

grimness. The camera crews, perched like buzzards on

rootops, only add to the eect.People ile in silently and sign in. The reaping is a

good opportunity or the Capitol to keep tabs on the

population as well. Twelve- to eighteen-year-olds are

herded into roped areas marked o by ages, the oldest

in the ront, the young ones, like Prim, towards the

back. Family members line up around the perimeter,

holding tightly to one anothers hands. But there are


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others, too, who have no one they love at stake, or

who no longer care, who slip among the crowd,

taking bets on the two kids whose names will bedrawn. Odds are given on their ages, whether theyre

Seam or merchant, i they will break down and

weep. Most reuse dealing with the racketeers but

careully, careully. These same people tend to be

inormers, and who hasnt broken the law? I could be

shot on a daily basis or hunting, but the appetites o

those in charge protect me. Not everyone can claim

the same.

Anyway, Gale and I agree that i we have to choose

between dying o hunger and a bullet in the head, the

bullet would be much quicker.

The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic, as

people arrive. The squares quite large, but not enough

to hold District 12s population o about eight

thousand. Latecomers are directed to the adjacent

streets, where they can watch the event on screens asits televised live by the state.

I ind mysel standing in a clump o sixteens rom

the Seam. We all exchange terse nods, then ocus our

attention on the temporary stage that is set up beore

the Justice Building. It holds three chairs, a podium

and two large glass balls, one or the boys and one or

the girls. I stare at the paper slips in the girls ball.


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Twenty o them have Katniss Everdeen written on

them in careul handwriting.

Two o the three chairs ill with Madges ather,Mayor Undersee, whos a tall, balding man, and Eie

Trinket, District 12s escort, resh rom the Capitol with

her scary white grin, pinkish hair and spring green suit.

They murmur to each other and then look with concern

at the empty seat.

Just as the town clock strikes two, the mayor steps

up to the podium and begins to read. Its the same

story every year. He tells o the history o Panem, the

country that rose up out o the ashes o a place that was

once called North America. He lists the disasters, the

droughts, the storms, the ires, the encroaching seas

that swallowed up so much o the land, the brutal war

or what little sustenance remained. The result was

Panem, a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen districts,

which brought peace and prosperity to its citizens.

Then came the Dark Days, the uprising o the districtsagainst the Capitol. Twelve were deeated, the

thirteenth obliterated. The Treaty o Treason gave us

the new laws to guarantee peace and, as our yearly

reminder that the Dark Days must never be repeated, it

gave us the Hunger Games.

The rules o the Hunger Games are simple. In

punishment or the uprising, each o the twelve districts


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must provide one girl and one boy, called tributes, to

participate. The twenty-our tributes will be imprisoned

in a vast outdoor arena that could hold anything rom aburning desert to a rozen wasteland. Over a period o

several weeks, the competitors must ight to the death.

The last tribute standing wins.

Taking the kids rom our districts, orcing them to

kill one another while we watch this is the Capitols

way o reminding us how totally we are at their mercy.

How little chance we would stand o surviving another

rebellion. Whatever words they use, the real message is

clear. Look how we take your children and sacriice

them and theres nothing you can do. I you lit a

inger, we will destroy every last one o you. Just as we

did in District Thirteen.

To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the

Capitol requires us to treat the Hunger Games as a

estivity, a sporting event pitting every district against

the others. The last tribute alive receives a lie o easeback home, and their district will be showered with

prizes, largely consisting o ood. All year, the Capitol

will show the winning district gits o grain and oil

and even delicacies like sugar while the rest o us battle

starvation.

It is both a time or repentance and a time or

thanks, intones the mayor.


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Then he reads the list o past District 12 victors. In

seventy-our years, we have had exactly two. Only one

is still alive. Haymitch Abernathy, a paunchy, middle-aged man, who at this moment appears hollering

something unintelligible, staggers on to the stage, and

alls into the third chair. Hes drunk. Very. The crowd

responds with its token applause, but hes conused and

tries to give Eie Trinket a big hug, which she barely

manages to end o.

The mayor looks distressed. Since all o this is

being televised, right now District 12 is the laughing

stock o Panem, and he knows it. He quickly tries to

pull the attention back to the reaping by introducing

Eie Trinket.

Bright and bubbly as ever, Eie Trinket trots to the

podium and gives her signature, Happy Hunger

Games! And may the odds be everin your avour! Her

pink hair must be a wig because her curls have shited

slightly o-centre since her encounter with Haymitch.She goes on a bit about what an honour it is to be here,

although everyone knows shes just aching to get

bumped up to a better district where they have proper

victors, not drunks who molest you in ront o the

entire nation.

Through the crowd, I spot Gale looking back at me

with a ghost o a smile. As reapings go, this one at least


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has a slight entertainment actor. But suddenly I am

thinking o Gale and his orty-two names in that big

glass ball and how the odds are not in his avour. Notcompared to a lot o the boys. And maybe hes thinking

the same thing about me because his ace darkens and

he turns away. But there are still thousands o slips, I

wish I could whisper to him.

Its time or the drawing. Eie Trinket says as she

always does, Ladies irst! and crosses to the glass ball

with the girls names. She reaches in, digs her hand

deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip o paper. The

crowd draws in a collective breath and then you can

hear a pin drop, and Im eeling nauseous and so

desperately hoping that its not me, that its not me, that

its not me.

E ie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smoothes

the slip o paper, and reads out the name in a clear

voice. And its not me.

Its Primrose Everdeen.


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1

One time, when I was in a hide in a tree, waiting

motionless or game to wander by, I dozed o and ell

three metres to the ground, landing on my back. It was

as i the impact had knocked every wisp o air rom my

lungs, and I lay there struggling to inhale, to exhale, to

do anything.

Thats how I eel now, trying to remember how to

breathe, unable to speak, totally stunned as the name

bounces around the inside o my skull. Someone isgripping my arm, a boy rom the Seam, and I think

maybe I started to all and he caught me.

There must have been some mistake. This cant be

happening. Prim was one slip o paper in thousands!

Her chances o being chosen were so remote that Id

not even bothered to worry about her. Hadnt I done

everything? Taken the tesserae, reused to let her do


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the same? One slip. One slip in thousands. The odds

had been entirely in her avour. But it hadnt

mattered.Somewhere ar away, I can hear the crowd

murmuring unhappily, as they always do when a

twelve-year-old gets chosen, because no one thinks

this is air. And then I see her, the blood drained rom

her ace, hands clenched in ists at her sides, walking

with sti, small steps up towards the stage, passing me,

and I see the back o her blouse has become untucked

and hangs out over her skirt. Its this detail, the

untucked blouse orming a ducks tail, that brings me

back to mysel.

Prim! The strangled cry comes out o my throat,

and my muscles begin to move again. Prim! I dont

need to shove through the crowd. The other kids make

way immediately, allowing me a straight path to the

stage. I reach her just as she is about to mount the steps.

With one sweep o my arm, I push her behind me.I volunteer! I gasp. I volunteer as tribute!

Theres some conusion on the stage. District 12

hasnt had a volunteer in decades and the protocol has

become rusty. The rule is that once a tributes name

has been pulled rom the ball, another eligible boy, i a

boys name has been read, or girl, i a girls name has

been read, can step orward to take his or her place. In


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some districts, in which winning the reaping is such a

great honour, people are eager to risk their lives, and

the volunteering is complicated. But in District 12,where the word tribute is pretty much synonymous

with the word corpse, volunteers are all but extinct.

Lovely! says Eie Trinket. But I believe theres

a small matter o introducing the reaping winner and

then asking or volunteers, and i one does come orth

then we, um. . . She trails o, unsure hersel.

What does it matter? says the mayor. Hes

looking at me with a pained expression on his ace. He

doesnt know me really, but theres a aint recognition

there. I am the girl who brings the strawberries. The

girl his daughter might have spoken o on occasion.

The girl who ive years ago stood huddled with her

mother and sister, as he presented her, the oldest child,

with a medal o valour. A medal or her ather,

vaporized in the mines. Does he remember that?

What does it matter? he repeats gruly. Let hercome orward.

Prim is screaming hysterically behind me. Shes

wrapped her skinny arms around me like a vice. No,

Katniss! No! You cant go!

Prim, let go, I say harshly, because this is

upsetting me and I dont want to cry. When they

televise the replay o the reapings tonight, everyone


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28

will make note o my tears, and Ill be marked as an

easy target. A weakling. I will give no one that

satisaction. Let go!I can eel someone pulling her rom my back. I

turn and see Gale has lited Prim o the ground and

shes thrashing in his arms. Up you go, Catnip, he

says, in a voice hes ighting to keep steady, and then he

carries Prim o towards my mother. I steel mysel and

climb the steps.

Well, bravo! gushes Eie Trinket. Thats the

spirit o the Games! Shes pleased to inally have a

district with a little action going on in it. Whats your

name?

I swallow hard. Katniss Everdeen, I say.

I bet my buttons that was your sister. Dont want

her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody!

Lets give a big round o applause to our newest

tribute! trills Eie Trinket.

To the everlasting credit o the people o District12, not one person claps. Not even the ones holding

betting slips, the ones who are usually beyond caring.

Possibly because they know me rom the Hob, or knew

my ather, or have encountered Prim, whom no one

can help loving. So instead o acknowledging applause,

I stand there unmoving while they take part in the

boldest orm o dissent they can manage. Silence.


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29

Which says we do not agree. We do not condone. All

o this is wrong.

Then something unexpected happens. At least, Idont expect it because I dont think o District 12 as a

place that cares about me. But a shit has occurred

since I stepped up to take Prims place, and now it

seems I have become someone precious. At irst one,

then another, then almost every member o the crowd

touches the three middle ingers o their let hand to

their lips and holds it out to me. It is an old and rarely

used gesture o our district, occasionally seen at

unerals. It means thanks, it means admiration, it

means goodbye to someone you love.

Now I am truly in danger o crying, but ortunately

Haymitch chooses this time to come staggering across

the stage to congratulate me. Look at her. Look at this

one! he hollers, throwing an arm around my

shoulders. Hes surprisingly strong or such a wreck. I

like her! His breath reeks o liquor and its been a longtime since hes bathed. Lots o. . . He cant think o

the word or a while. Spunk! he says triumphantly.

More than you! He releases me and starts or the

ront o the stage. More than you! he shouts,

pointing directly into a camera.

Is he addressing the audience or is he so drunk he

might actually be taunting the Capitol? Ill never know


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30

because just as hes opening his mouth to continue,

Haymitch plummets o the stage and knocks himsel

unconscious.Hes disgusting, but Im grateul. With every

camera gleeully trained on him, I have just enough

time to release the small, choked sound in my throat

and compose mysel. I put my hands behind my back

and stare into the distance. I can see the hills I climbed

this morning with Gale. For a moment, I yearn or

something . . . the idea o us leaving the district . . .

making our way in the woods . . . but I know I was

right about not running o. Because who else would

have volunteered or Prim?

Haymitch is whisked away on a stretcher, and Eie

Trinket is trying to get the ball rolling again. What

an exciting day! she warbles as she attempts to

straighten her wig, which has listed severely to the

right. But more excitement to come! Its time to

choose our boy tribute! Clearly hoping to contain hertenuous hair situation, she plants one hand on her head

as she crosses to the ball that contains the boys names

and grabs the irst slip she encounters. She zips back to

the podium, and I dont even have time to wish or

Gales saety when shes reading the name. Peeta

Mellark.

Peeta Mellark!


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31

Oh, no, I think. Not him. Because I recognize this

name, although I have never spoken directly to its

owner. Peeta Mellark.No, the odds are not in my avour today.

I watch him as he makes his way towards the stage.

Medium height, stocky build, ashy blond hair that alls

in waves over his orehead. The shock o the moment

is registering on his ace, you can see his struggle to

remain emotionless, but his blue eyes show the alarm

Ive seen so oten in prey. Yet he climbs steadily on to

the stage and takes his place.

Eie Trinket asks or volunteers, but no one steps

orward. He has two older brothers, I know, Ive seen

them in the bakery, but one is probably too old now to

volunteer and the other wont. This is standard. Family

devotion only goes so ar or most people on reaping

day. What I did was the radical thing.

The mayor begins to read the long, dull Treaty o

Treason as he does every year at this point itsrequired but Im not listening to a word.

Why him? I think. Then I try to convince mysel it

doesnt matter. Peeta Mellark and I are not riends. Not

even neighbours. We dont speak. Our only real

interaction happened years ago. Hes probably orgotten

it. But I havent and I know I never will. . .

It was during the worst time. My ather had been


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32

killed in the mine accident three months earlier in the

bitterest January anyone could remember. The

numbness o his loss had passed, and the pain would hitme out o nowhere, doubling me over, racking my

body with sobs. Where are you? I would cry out in my

mind. Where have you gone? O course, there was never

any answer.

The district had given us a small amount o money

as compensation or his death, enough to cover one

month o grieving, ater which time my mother would

be expected to get a job. Only she didnt. She didnt do

anything but sit propped up in a chair or, more oten,

huddled under the blankets on her bed, eyes ixed on

some point in the distance. Once in a while, shed stir,

get up as i moved by some urgent purpose, only to

then collapse back into stillness. No amount o pleading

rom Prim seemed to aect her.

I was terriied. I suppose now that my mother was

locked in some dark world o sadness, but at the time,all I knew was that I had lost not only a ather, but a

mother as well. At eleven years old, with Prim just

seven, I took over as head o the amily. There was no

choice. I bought our ood at the market and cooked it

as best I could and tried to keep Prim and mysel

looking presentable. Because i it had become known

that my mother could no longer care or us, the district


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33

would have taken us away rom her and placed us in

the community home. Id grown up seeing those home

kids at school. The sadness, the marks o angry handson their aces, the hopelessness that curled their

shoulders orward. I could never let that happen to

Prim. Sweet, tiny Prim who cried when I cried

beore she even knew the reason, who brushed and

plaited my mothers hair beore we let or school,

who still polished my athers shaving mirror each

night because hed hated the layer o coal dust that

settled on everything in the Seam. The community

home would crush her like a bug. So I kept our

predicament a secret.

But the money ran out and we were slowly starving

to death. Theres no other way to put it. I kept telling

mysel i I could only hold out until May, just the

eighth o May, I would turn twelve and be able to sign

up or the tesserae and get that precious grain and oil to

eed us. Only there were still several weeks to go. Wecould well be dead by then.

Starvations not an uncommon ate in District 12.

Who hasnt seen the victims? Older people who cant

work. Children rom a amily with too many to eed.

Those injured in the mines. Straggling through the

streets. And one day, you come upon them sitting

motionless against a wall or lying in the Meadow, you


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34

hear the wails rom a house, and the Peacekeepers are

called in to retrieve the body. Starvation is never the

cause o death oicially. Its always the lu, or exposure,or pneumonia. But that ools no one.

On the aternoon o my encounter with Peeta

Mellark, the rain was alling in relentless icy sheets. I

had been in town, trying to trade some threadbare old

baby clothes o Prims in the public market, but there

were no takers. Although I had been to the Hob on

several occasions with my ather, I was too rightened

to venture into that rough, gritty place alone. The rain

had soaked through my athers hunting jacket, leaving

me chilled to the bone. For three days, wed had

nothing but boiled water with some old dried mint

leaves Id ound in the back o a cupboard. By the time

the market closed, I was shaking so hard I dropped my

bundle o baby clothes in a muddy puddle. I didnt pick

it up or ear I would keel over and be unable to regain

my eet. Besides, no one wanted those clothes.I couldnt go home. Because at home was my

mother with her dead eyes and my little sister, with her

hollow cheeks and cracked lips. I couldnt walk into

that room with the smoky ire rom the damp branches

I had scavenged at the edge o the woods ater the coal

had run out, my hands empty o any hope.

I ound mysel stumbling along a muddy lane


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35

behind the shops that serve the wealthiest townspeople.

The merchants live above their businesses, so I was

essentially in their back gardens. I remember theoutlines o garden beds not yet planted or the spring,

a goat or two in a pen, one sodden dog tied to a post,

hunched deeated in the muck.

All orms o stealing are orbidden in District 12.

Punishable by death. But it crossed my mind that there

might be something in the rubbish bins, and those

were air game. Perhaps a bone at the butchers or

rotted vegetables at the grocers, something no one but

my amily was desperate enough to eat. Unortunately,

the bins had just been emptied.

When I passed the bakers, the smell o resh bread

was so overwhelming I elt dizzy. The ovens were in

the back, and a golden glow spilled out o the open

kitchen door. I stood mesmerized by the heat and the

luscious scent until the rain interered, running its icy

ingers down my back, orcing me back to lie. I litedthe lid to the bakers rubbish bin and ound it spotlessly,

heartlessly bare.

Suddenly a voice was screaming at me and I looked

up to see the bakers wie, telling me to move on and

did I want her to call the Peacekeepers and how sick

she was o having those brats rom the Seam pawing

through her rubbish. The words were ugly and I had


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36

no deence. As I careully replaced the lid and backed

away, I noticed him, a boy with blond hair peering out

rom behind his mothers back. Id seen him at school.He was in my year, but I didnt know his name. He

stuck with the town kids, so how would I? His mother

went back into the bakery, grumbling, but he must

have been watching me as I made my way behind the

pen that held their pig and leaned against the ar side o

an old apple tree. The realization that Id have nothing

to take home had inally sunk in. My knees buckled

and I slid down the tree trunk to its roots. It was too

much. I was too sick and weak and tired, oh, so tired.

Let them call the Peacekeepers and take us to the community

home, I thought. Or better yet, let me die right here in the

rain.

There was a clatter in the bakery and I heard the

woman screaming again and the sound o a blow, and

I vaguely wondered what was going on. Feet sloshed

towards me through the mud and I thought, Its her.Shes coming to drive me away with a stick. But it wasnt

her. It was the boy. In his arms, he carried two large

loaves o bread that must have allen into the ire

because the crusts were scorched black.

His mother was yelling, Feed it to the pig, you

stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy

burned bread!


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37

He began to tear o chunks rom the burned parts

and toss them into the trough, and the ront bakery

bell rung and the mother disappeared to help acustomer.

The boy never even glanced my way, but I was

watching him. Because o the bread, because o the red

weal that stood out on his cheekbone. What had she

hit him with? My parents never hit us. I couldnt even

imagine it. The boy took one look back at the bakery

as i checking that the coast was clear, then, his

attention back on the pig, he threw a loa o bread in

my direction. The second quickly ollowed, and he

sloshed back to the bakery, closing the kitchen door

tightly behind him.

I stared at the loaves in disbelie. They were ine,

perect really, except or the burned areas. Did he mean

or me to have them? He must have. Because there

they were at my eet. Beore anyone could witness

what had happened I shoved the loaves up under myshirt, wrapped the hunting jacket tightly about me, and

walked switly away. The heat o the bread burned into

my skin, but I clutched it tighter, clinging to lie.

By the time I reached home, the loaves had cooled

somewhat, but the insides were still warm. When I

dropped them on the table, Prims hands reached to

tear o a chunk, but I made her sit, orced my mother


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38

to join us at the table, and poured warm tea. I scraped

o the black stu and sliced the bread. We ate an entire

loa, slice by slice. It was good hearty bread, illed withraisins and nuts.

I put my clothes to dry at the ire, crawled into

bed, and ell into a dreamless sleep. It didnt occur to

me until the next morning that the boy might have

burned the bread on purpose. Might have dropped the

loaves into the lames, knowing it meant being

punished, and then delivered them to me. But I

dismissed this. It must have been an accident. Why

would he have done it? He didnt even know me. Still,

just throwing me the bread was an enormous kindness

that would have surely resulted in a beating i

discovered. I couldnt explain his actions.

We ate slices o bread or breakast and headed to

school. It was as i spring had come overnight. Warm

sweet air. Fluy clouds. At school, I passed the boy in

the hall; his cheek had swelled up and his eye hadblackened. He was with his riends and didnt

acknowledge me in any way. But as I collected Prim

and started or home that aternoon, I ound him

staring at me rom across the school yard. Our eyes met

or only a second, then he turned his head away. I

dropped my gaze, embarrassed, and thats when I

saw it. The irst dandelion o the year. A bell went o


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39

in my head. I thought o the hours spent in the

woods with my ather and I knew how we were going

to survive.To this day, I can never shake the connection

between this boy, Peeta Mellark, and the bread that

gave me hope, and the dandelion that reminded me

that I was not doomed. And more than once, I have

turned in the school hallway and caught his eyes

trained on me, only to quickly lit away. I eel like I

owe him something, and I hate owing people. Maybe

i I had thanked him at some point, Id be eeling less

conlicted now. I thought about it a couple o times,

but the opportunity never seemed to present itsel.

And now it never will. Because were going to be

thrown into an arena to ight to the death. Exactly

how am I supposed to work in a thank-you in there?

Somehow it just wont seem sincere i Im trying to slit

his throat.

The mayor inishes the dreary Treaty o Treasonand motions or Peeta and me to shake hands. His are

as solid and warm as those loaves o bread. Peeta looks

me right in the eye and gives my hand what I think is

meant to be a reassuring squeeze. Maybe its just a

nervous spasm.

We turn back to ace the crowd as the anthem o

Panem plays.


46/46

Oh, well, I think. There will be twenty-four of us. Odds

are someone else will kill him before I do.

O course, the odds have not been very dependableo late.

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