I probably shouldn't be in the Reaping anymore, but nobody really knows for sure.

They say I was born in the winter some eighteen years ago, which should mean I'm just that. Eighteen. The problem with that— and with all Covey birth records, if I had to cast a guess— is that nobody can gather if that's really true or not. Since there's no documentation of it, the Peacekeepers can't take it for truth, so my age has just been estimated my whole life. I think I'm eighteen. The Peacekeepers say I'm seventeen. That way I'm still eligible.

I think they'd prefer it if I were eligible every year— just keep changing up which age they think I might be so I fit in the age limits for the Reaping— but I think they're starting to push it. After all, there's only so many years can go by before someone starts to wonder, "Hey, hasn't that Baird girl been in the Reaping goin' on twenty years now?"

Clerk Carmine has been trying to get proof I was born eighteen years ago ever since last year's Reaping, but what all can you say? Tell them to just take his word for it? The Peacekeepers don't much like to take people's word for it. They like to accuse us and throw us behind bars without a second word. Clerk Carmine and I are probably just lucky we haven't been arrested for trying to get out of the Reaping.

Sam Hickory's birthday, on the other hand, is too absolute for us to argue. There's records of his birth. Seventeen years and two months ago, he was born, and nearly killed his ma while he was at it— they had to take her to Mrs. Everdeen's house so she didn't bleed out. In the end, she didn't die there; she made it to Sam Hickory's first birthday before leaving us.

That puts me and Sam Hickory on an equal footing for a lot of things: Age (probably), number of living parents (oh for two), and odds of being Reaped in this year's games (they're never in our favor).

It's a pretty depressing life we live, so we try not to think about it too much or else we get depressed. That's why we spend every morning before the Reaping at the lake.

The sun's bright today, midsummer heat beating down on the backs of our necks even though it isn't even noon. The fishing rod's strapped to my back for safekeeping so we can catch a fish or a few and eat a nice dinner after we're supposed to be in the Square at two. Hung from Sam Hickory's neck is the leather pouch full of peppermints Clerk Carmine splurged and got for us yesterday.

Every year he gets us something sweet for the morning of the Reaping. He never says it, but Sam Hickory and I know it's in case our time is up and our name gets called later that day. He wants us to have one last sweet before we go.

It's a kind thought for him to do, but Sam Hickory and I've made it this long without our luck running out, so I feel pretty confident in myself when I drop one of the soft candies on my tongue and let it start to melt.

The trees and grass we're pushing through slowly give way to a great, wide meadow, and straight down the middle of the field is a path leading down to the edge of the lake. I've been walking this route every day since I could walk in the first place, and Sam Hickory's probably come down here double the amount; whenever the Peacekeepers would come knocking to draft him into training for the coal mines, Clerk Carmine and I would distract them while Sam Hickory made for the hills.

His dad died in a mining accident, and ever since, he's been scared stiff of anything having to do with tight spaces or being underground. He can hardly sit inside the little shed out back to pick up goose eggs. I think if he ever made it into the mines, he'd have a heart attack and die on the spot.

Being in the wide open seems to calm him down. It sure helps his temper. Even as we meander down the ever-so-slight decline of the meadow's path, I watch the back of his shoulders loosen.

"Your lily meetin' us down here?" he asks, just barely turning his chin back toward me.

"Maybe," I reply with a shrug, working the mint around my mouth. "Might have to work, though. Her mama's busy with the baby and all that."

Sam Hickory scoffs. I know he isn't the biggest fan of babies to begin with— thinks they're stinky and whiny, and who am I to disagree with that— but he bites his thumb at the Cartwrights especially; they've got four kids and don't seem to be stopping anytime soon. Sam Hickory wonders how they're able to feed such a big family. I wonder how it is Daylily can have three younger siblings (and counting) and not lose her mind.

"Luck be with her," mutters Sam Hickory, and I laugh. We don't say "May the odds be ever in her favor," because that's a Capitol saying and we're the furthest thing from it. And besides, I think luck goes where she's asked to go, but odds can be pretty dicey. Just look at that Callow kid, the gambler who had plenty of experience dealing with odds. He didn't last an hour in the arena.

A little while later, we've made it down to the shore and kicked off our boots. The water's warm today, curling around our ankles with soft little waves like it's trying to pull us in for a nap. Sam Hickory's already stripped off his shirt and tossed it over a rock, crouched at the edge and watching for fish like he's gonna dive in barehanded. He probably will, even though I brought the rod down. He likes to make things harder for himself.

I settle down beside the patch of cattails that always sways like it's listening to the wind's secrets, and I lean back on my elbows, mint still melting slow on my tongue. For a second, it tastes like something from the Capitol, bright and sweet and unreal.

And then I hear her.

"Claribel Rose!"

I don't have to look to know it's her. Her voice always laces up the back of my spine like a ribbon when she says my name that way.

Daylily Cartwright comes barreling through the field with that clumsy grace she always has— like she hasn't made peace with how long her legs are or how quick they can move. She's wearing a pair of old denim overalls and her swimsuit underneath. Her braids are crooked and her cheeks are pink, and I think she's the prettiest damn thing I've ever seen so I can't help but smile.

"You made it," I call, standing up and brushing grass from my long skirt.

She grins. "Mama finally fell asleep with the baby. I snuck out the back. You'd think she'd notice a whole person leaving the house."

"You're the size of a straw doll," Sam Hickory mutters from the water.

She clicks her tongue and tosses a pebble at him that doesn't even make it past the reeds.

"Here," she says, turning back to me, and pulls a little wax paper bundle from her satchel. "Found blackberries by the fence. They're warm from the sun."

She hands me the bundle and her fingers graze mine just a second longer than they have to. Sam Hickory makes a loud gagging sound and splashes deeper into the lake. I don't mind him at all— my attention is saved for my Daylily.

We met a long time ago, and I knew I loved her the moment I saw her. How couldn't I? She's got a voice soft as honey and eyes just the same, and her soul's how my people say pure as the driven snow. I always knew Daylily was the best of the people here in 12, and she sure proves it everyday. She's the eldest of all her siblings; they all rely on her for everything, since her mama's always running the shoe shop and her papa's always in the mines. (It's a miracle they have the chance to get pregnant all these times.)

Daylily's family is barely functional and they typically go days at a time without supper, but she's never gone longer than an hour without smiling. She can hardly make it through her day without helping someone in need. She's selfless and kind and all the things the Capitol hate to see in people from 12.

That's my Lily. And I'm her Rose.

We stretch out on the sun-drenched rocks for a while, lazily alternating between tossing berries and peppermints into our mouths until it's too hot to ignore the lake's taunting coolness. Then it's all splashing and laughing with our heads thrown back toward the sky, and dancing through the shallow parts near the shore before flying over to the middle of the lake and seeing who can stay beneath the surface the longest. Sam Hickory always wins, but Daylily's getting better the more we practice. I wonder if she'll beat him next time. I certainly won't— I may be a decent swimmer, but holding my breath is a different story.

Once we're too exhausted to keep ourselves afloat, we head back over to the shore. Daylily and I take back our rock while Sam Hickory unwinds the fishing rod.

Daylily leans her head against my stomach and I curve my arm so I can rest my head higher and keep looking at her: leg bent, the other dangling into the lake. Her braid's come undone at the end, a few dark strands curling in all sorts of directions. She plucks a blade of grass and starts to pick it apart like she always does when she's thinking hard about something. I don't say anything. I just pass her another peppermint from Sam Hickory's pouch.

Behind us, he's still waist-deep in the water, pretending he's not watching us while he fishes. But I know better. He's always watching. That's how he looks out for us.

"You know," he says suddenly, flicking a splash toward a dragonfly, "if either of you get called today, I'm jumpin' on the stage."

"You'll get shot," I say, propping myself on my elbows. "They've done it before."

"I know," he says, without looking at me. "Still would."

Daylily scoffs lightly. "Don't talk like that, Sam Hickory, you don't mean it."

"I do mean it," he mutters, shaking his head, keeping his eyes down on his fingers as he fiddles with the end of the rod. "Ain't gonna just stand there like a stump while one of you gets carted off to die."

"Nobody's dying," I tell him, and I mean it. Nobody's names will be called, so Sam Hickory will have no need to jump on the stage and get shot for our benefit. He doesn't seem convinced.

The mention of that afternoon's activities seems to have put a damper on our lake day— or maybe it's the thought of one of us getting Reaped and Sam Hickory's head being blown off in front of the entire country— so we linger around for only a few more minutes while Sam Hickory catches one more fish. Then we pack up and head back toward town.

Sam Hickory leads the way again, which is fine by me 'cause it means I get to hold Daylily's hand while we graze through the meadow. It's a pretty sight to see, all of the flowers blooming and the sun shining through all the greenery, but I don't take my eyes off of my girl. Couldn't if I wanted to.

When she catches me looking, she squeezes my hand and grins at me, and I return it because it's impossible not to.

"Tell us a song," she says.

"Now?" I ask, turning ahead to eye Sam Hickory. "We don't have instruments on us."

"That sure doesn't bother me," she says, still grinning. She squeezes my hand again and nudges me with her shoulder. "Come on. Something small. Something that don't mean anything."

I think for a second, racking my mind for any of our Covey songs that "don't mean anything," but it's hard to find one that doesn't hold implications or hide depths below the surface. I learned that a couple years ago— my superpower. The words I sing come true.

So I hum along to the tune Clerk Carmine taught me, from a long time ago— it's usually pretty upbeat when the whole band's there to accompany it, but it's just been me for the past few years, so I sing it slower and quieter:

"The storm and its fury broke today
Crushing hopes that we cherish so dear
Clouds and storms will in time pass away
The sun will again shine bright and clear."

"Those are good lyrics," Daylily interjects as I pause to take a breath. "Good ones. Better than the sad songs you always choose."

I hold my breath for longer than I should; it messes up the rhythm of the song and I can't jump back in without keeping beat on my lap, but I find that I don't want to. Suddenly I don't really wanna sing anymore.

Daylily doesn't ask me to keep going; one verse was enough for her, apparently. She just walks a little closer, bumping her hip against mine, and lets her thumb trace over the back of my hand. It's a soft thing, thoughtless probably, but it makes something sharp catch in my throat.

Sam Hickory glances over his shoulder at us, and I know what he's thinking. He's thinking that I stopped singing because there's nothing good to sing about. Because songs mean things, and no matter how bright the lyrics, the tune always sounds a little like goodbye this close to two o'clock.

We don't talk much the rest of the way back. At least Daylily doesn't let go of my hand.

The Square starts to show in the distance— the tops of buildings, the pale banners strung between posts, the glassy glint of Peacekeeper helmets under the sun— and that's when Sam Hickory finally breaks the silence.

"We'll see you later?"

I know he's talking to Daylily so I keep my head down. This is where we have to separate. She has to go get her siblings ready for the Reaping, and Sam Hickory and I are going to go prepare the fish he caught for lunch and dinner tonight. Then we'll put on our best and meet back up in the Square after the clock hits one.

Daylily nods, leans in to kiss my cheek, and gives Sam Hickory the same, like she doesn't want him feeling left out. Then she's gone— back across the dirt path and up the side road toward the Cartwright house, where I know her little sister will be screaming and her mama will be overwhelmed and nobody will be thinking much about the fact that this might be the last time they see their eldest. That's how people cope here. Pretend until pretending's no longer an option.

We walk the rest of the way in silence. The fish in Sam Hickory's satchel are still wriggling, so we gut and clean them in the little basin behind Clerk Carmine's house while the sun climbs higher in the sky. Sam Hickory does most of the work. I sit on the back steps without saying much, staring at the Square like I can will the hour hand to stop moving.

Inside, CC irons our clothes. He hums while he does it— not a song I know, just a simple tune, maybe something his parents taught him back when the Covey still traveled and sang for real crowds. I always wish I could experience those days. Nobody much wants to hear any of our songs anymore. He lays out our outfits with quiet ceremony, like he's dressing us for wedding, or a funeral. Maybe both.

We eat together, just the three of us. Fish fried in cornmeal, slices of rich cucumber, one last peppermint each from the pouch. Nobody talks about what happens after lunch. Nobody has to.

By the time we step out the front door, the bells in the Square are already ringing.

Clerk Carmine watches us go from the porch, one hand pressed to his chest like he's keeping something from spilling out. I don't know if it's tears or words or a song. Maybe all three. He'll clean up lunch, then walk over to the Square right on time. Sam Hickory and I have to be there early; we're a part of the ceremony, after all. Clerk Carmine has lost too many of his family to this same ceremony, so it makes sense he doesn't want to walk over with us.

Sam Hickory doesn't look back. I do.

The camera crews are already in place when Sam Hickory and I arrive, and they stick out like sore thumbs. Capitol dress have never much been welcomed in District 12, from Capitol escorts to the few times any high-ranking officials may drop in. They have their cameras set steady and angled down toward the stage, threatening without words the event that begins the end of two people's lives.

The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic as people arrive, and no longer can I linger behind the crowd with Sam Hickory pretending like we're lost. We've done this too many times to be lost. He recognizes that our time is up, too, and he takes my hands and presses them to his lips.

"Luck be with you," I tell him, managing a weak smile, nodding. "I'll see you for dinner, hm?"

He nods, his eyes shut. "Yeah. Luck be with you."

We separate, heading for the rest of the seventeen year olds on opposite sides of the aisle. Sam Hickory joins the young men, and I shuffle in with the rest of the women, my neck craning around for my Daylily. She's too tall for the crowd so it doesn't take me long to find her, and she turns at the sound of my whistle; we make our way through the rest of our classmates until we're in the center of everyone, safe together. She takes my hand and I feel a whole lot braver.

We're pretty much shoulder-to-shoulder with everyone around us. The Square's quite large, but not enough to hold District 12's population of about eight thousand. Latecomers, like Clerk Carmine will be, are directed to the adjacent streets, where they can watch the event on screens as it's televised live by the state. I find myself standing in the clump of seventeens from the town, Seam townsfolk shoved together behind us. We all exchange terse nods then focus our attention on the temporary stage that is set up before the Justice Building.

The stage is already occupied by three chairs, a podium, and two glass bowls. One for the girls, and one for the boys. I've done this enough times to know the feeling, but it's still a shock to know Claribel Rose Baird is written on one of those slips. And Daylily Cartwright? She put her name in nineteen times to get enough tessarae and grain and oil to feed her family.

I can't worry for myself when Daylily has twenty times worse chances than me. Just the thought makes me nauseous.

One of the three chairs onstage fill with the mayor, Mr. Undersee, who's a tall, prematurely balding man— his wife is missing, probably holding their daughter and watching from the crowd. She's three now, but I know in nine years she'll be just as eligible as the rest of us. Next to Mayor Undersee, a figure with a white grin, an array of pink hair, and a spring green suit takes the second seat; Effie Trinket especially looks out of place compared to the grays and blacks of District 12. But she's our escort, and she's apparently the best one we've had, according to Clerk Carmine's opinion. That doesn't mean he likes her. Just means he can sniff out good character from a mile away.

Mayor Undersee and Effie Trinket murmur to each other and then look with concern at the empty seat. I know just as well as the rest of the District who is missing.

Just as the town clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to the podium and begins to read. It's the same story every year. He tells of the history of Panem, the country that rose up out of the ashes of a fallen place. He lists the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the encroaching seas that swallowed up so much of the land, the brutal war for 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 of the districts against the Capitol. Twelve were defeated, the thirteenth obliterated. The Treaty of 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.

Taking kids from the districts, forcing them to kill one another while the entire country watches— this is the Capitol's way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy. How little chance we would stand of surviving another rebellion.

Whatever words they use, the real message is clear. "Look how we take your children and sacrifice them and there's nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy every last one of you. Just as we did in District Thirteen."

Where's the Covey in that, I wonder? Too unimportant to be noted? It's not like we keep a low profile. Well, we do now, but for a long time you couldn't walk through 12 without hearing our people play.

Maybe that's the whole point. We don't fit into the history of Panem, so they erase us. I almost laugh at the thought of President Snow caring enough about Covey to erase our names from the script all the mayors read on Reaping Day.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," intones the mayor. Then he reads the list of past District 12 victors. In sixty-one years, we have had exactly two. The first, Clerk Carmine says, was my great aunt. The second is the only one still alive.

He appears at this moment as though waiting for a cue, hollering something unintelligible as he staggers onto the stage and falls into the third chair. He's drunk, though that's no surprise. Still, it clenches my heart to see. The crowd responds with its token applause, but Haymitch is confused and tries to give Effie Trinket a big hug, which she barely manages to fend off.

The mayor looks distressed. Since all of this is being televised, right now District 12 is the laughingstock of Panem, and he knows it. He quickly tries to pull the attention back to the reaping by introducing Effie Trinket.

Bright and bubbly as ever, she trots to the podium and gives her signature, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

I think of Daylily, who is right beside me, and Sam Hickory, who always has my back. Luck be with them. Please.

Trinket's pink hair must be a wig because her curls have shifted slightly off-center since her encounter with Haymitch. She goes on a bit about what an honor it is to be here, although everyone knows she's just aching to get bumped up to a better district where they have proper victors, not drunkards who embarrass you in front of the entire nation.

Effie is still reasonably young. She could feasibly make it up through the Districts. Probably 12 is just a punishment for her. In any case, Effie puts on a good act.

It's time for the drawing. Effie Trinket says as she always does, "Ladies first!" 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 of paper. The crowd draws in a collective breath and then you can hear a pin drop, and I'm feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it's not me. It's impossible that it's me. Statistically impossible. It isn't me.

Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice, and it isn't me.

It's Daylily Cartwright.

I feel as though I've been punched. My gut twists, and I turn to her.

She's still standing next to me. We're shoulder to shoulder, her hand brushing mine. For a split second, I have the ignorance to think I only imagined it. She hasn't moved— her lips are parted, her eyes wide. Shock hasn't let her body catch up to the sound of her name.

Then the Peacekeepers start forward. For her. If a tribute doesn't make it to the stage on their own, the Peacekeepers will help them.

And before I can think, before I can even breathe, I'm moving.

It isn't bravery, it isn't even hardly a decision. It's something older than thought and stronger than fear. I'm shaking, but I'm surging through the crowd, my hand empty of Daylily's now but rising into the air of its own accord.

"I volunteer!"

As I spill into the aisle, the words tear out of my mouth, raw and loud and higher than what I usually sound like. I stumble over my own two feet, because they seem to know where to take me, and my heart knows what to do to save Daylily. Together they carry me unevenly to the stage.

"I volunteer as tribute."

There's a gasp from the crowd— one long, stunned inhale like a wave rolling back— and I don't have to turn around to know it's Sam Hickory shouting my name. I can hear the panic in it. The disbelief. Clerk Carmine too, somewhere far back in the crowd, calling out with the voice he only uses in emergencies. Somewhere in the boys' section, there's a scuffle, and I know it's Sam Hickory trying to break out to follow through on his promise.

Then comes the worst. There's a gap in the crowd of girls from where I tore out, and from inside it I can hear Daylily. She has registered what's happened, quicker than I have. Her voice is high and fractured, terrified.

"Cl—what did you—"

I turn around, still in the center of the aisle, still with everyone's eyes— the eyes of Panem— on me. I see my Daylily's head over everyone else's. There's horror in her eyes, the likes of which I've never seen before. She's trying to get through the crowd and follow where I went, but there's hands on her, pulling her back. They know what happens when anything out of the ordinary occurs.

"NO!" she screams, struggling against these girls holding her. "PLEASE—"

Her cries intermingle with Sam Hickory's, but I can't look at either of them any longer because there's a Peacekeeper taking me by the arm and escorting me to the stage. I feel frozen within my own skin, unable to think, or feel, or breathe.

There's some confusion on the stage, I can tell. District 12 hasn't had a volunteer in decades. The protocol has become rusty. Other Districts, higher ones, they deal with this all the time; people fight to get into the Games. But out in 12, tribute is synonymous with corpse, so you don't see this much.

Until me. Until Daylily. Until now.

"Lovely!" says Effie Trinket, and her eyes are so bright as they stare down at me. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um..." she trails off, unsure herself.

"What does it matter?" says the mayor. He's looking at me with a pained expression on his face. He doesn't know me really, but there's a faint recognition there. I'm the girl who sings, I'm the last one of the Covey who sings. Everyone knows us. Everyone knows me.

"What does it matter?" he repeats gruffly. "Let her come forward."

Daylily is screaming hysterically behind me. It pains me not to turn around, but I keep my head forward as I am marched to the stage, even though I feel so dizzy and like I'm about to pass out. When they televise the replay of the Reaping tonight, everyone will make note of my tears, and I will be an easy target. As much as I want to cry, I will the feeling away and keep my chin high.

The Peacekeeper stands still at the bottom of the steps, and I begin to climb them.

"Well, bravo!" gushes Effie Trinket. "That's the spirit of the Games!" She's pleased to finally have a district with a little action going on in it. "What's your name?"

I swallow so thickly I'm sure I was about to puke without realizing it.

"Claribel Rose Baird."

"Oh, and Claribel, was that your best friend down there? Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!" trills Effie Trinket.

I don't even have the words to correct her. It's Claribel Rose.

To the everlasting credit of the people of District 12, not one person claps. Not even the ones holding betting slips, the ones who are usually beyond caring. Possibly because they know me from my performances, or know Sam Hickory, or are familiar with the tragedy that became of every other Covey girl before me. So instead of acknowledging applause, I stand there stock still while they take part in the boldest form of dissent they can manage. Silence.

My Daylily is still out there. I can see her better now from the stage. She's given up fighting the people who are holding her, but now she's sobbing, big fat tears rolling down her cheeks that I can see even from the stage.

Now I am truly in danger of crying, seeing my girl in such a state, but luckily Haymitch chooses this time to keel to the side, doubling over next to his seat and releasing the contents of his stomach and liver onto the stage.

It's disgusting and hard to watch, at least for me, but the cameras fix on him and Effie's screaming reaction, probably for the comedic value of the scene. I take the brief moment to choke out a little sob, then compose myself.

I can see the meadow from here. Below it will be the lake, where Sam Hickory caught today's lunch and dinner that I won't get to eat. Sam Hickory, I think. He is already so broken. What will become of him?

Haymitch is whisked away on a stretcher while some Peacekeepers mop at his sick, and Effie Trinket is trying to get the ball rolling again.

"What an exciting day!" she exclaims to the crowd, though she still looks disgusted. She attempts to straighten her wig, which has listed severely to the right. "But more excitement to come! It's time to choose our boy tribute!" Clearly hoping to contain her tenuous hair situation, she plants one hand on her head as she crosses to the ball that contains the boys' names and grabs the first slip she encounters. She zips back to the podium, and I don't even have time to wish for Sam Hickory's safety when she reads the name.

I decide it's time to stop making wishes, because the name she calls out is Sam Hickory Clade.

Via Chatter!

Welcome to the 61st hunger games yayyyy!!!!!

there's so much worse in store