It's a short walk from the Justice Building to the train station. I can't recall a time I've ever been in a car before. It's weird. Not much about it do I like— especially not how quick we're moving. The windows are nice but not if we're moving too fast to see anything out of them.

The station, when we get there, me and whoever's driving my car, is swarming with reporters and cameras that seem to move on their own and have their own autonomy, all of them trained on my face in one angle or another. I've never been good at wiping my emotions from my face, and this suspicion of mine is confirmed when I catch a glimpse of my image on the screen above the train station and I see worry and terror written plain across my face.

I try my best to wipe them away, but I don't know how far they go. Maybe I'll try my bored face. Sam Hickory always hated when I'd put that one on during a story of his, just to get under his skin.

Cecil steps out of the car behind mine and faces the cameras the same way I do, but he looks a lot more put together than I do. I stretch for a look at the screen again; he looks bored. I look like a deer frozen in place.

We have to stand for a few minutes in the doorway of the train while the cameras gobble up our images, then we're allowed inside and the doors close mercifully behind us. The train begins to move at once.

The speed initially takes my breath away. Of course, I've never been on a train, as travel between the districts is forbidden except for officially sanctioned duties. For us, that's mainly transporting coal. But this is no ordinary coal train. It's one of the high-speed Capitol models that average 250 miles per hour. We're told our journey to the Capitol will take less than a day. Less than a day before I'm across the country from the people I love.

The tribute train is fancier than even the room in the Justice Building, but I get the feeling they're still trying to work out the kinks: We are each given our own chambers that have a bedroom, a dressing area, and a private bathroom with a lever for hot and cold running water, but when I test it, the water only comes out boiling hot or freezing cold, no in between. There are drawers that I imagine should be filled with fine clothes, but a few of them are almost or entirely empty and I'm left with three outfits total: One to sleep in tonight, one to wear tomorrow, and one extra. There's another door in my bedroom but I don't open it and assume it leads to a closet, maybe filled with more clothes or maybe with weapons for early training.

They've almost made this experience a luxury, but not quite yet. In a few years, they'll have it down. In a few years, it won't feel as much like a walk to the gallows.

Effie told me to do whatever I want and wear whatever I want, and what I want is to get out of my skirt and denim vest from the reaping because it reminds me of the worst part of my life so far. (I imagine that title will change to something else soon.) At the last minute, I remember Tap's whistle in the pocket of my vest and I pull it out, letting it sit in my palm for a moment.

I won't have much use for it in the arena, I know, but it'll be nice to have something from home anyway.

I peel off my reaping clothes and take a boiling hot shower, since my only other option is ice water. Still, it's nice; we only have hot water at home if we actually do boil it. Then I change into black pants and a gray shirt; the lesser nice option between the clothes I'm left with. I tuck Tap's whistle into my pocket, though I keep my fist curled around it.

Effie Trinket comes to collect me for supper. I follow her through the narrow, rocking corridor into a dining room with polished paneled walls. There's a table where all the dishes look to be made of wood or something cheap. Cecil sits waiting for us, the chair next to him empty.

"Where's Haymitch?" asks Effie Trinket brightly.

"Asleep," says Cecil, and that's that.

"Well, it's been an exhausting day," says Effie Trinket. I think she's relieved by Haymitch's absence. This makes me mad.

The supper comes in courses. A thick carrot soup, green salad, lamb chops and mashed potatoes, cheese and fruit, a chocolate cake. Throughout the meal, Effie Trinket keeps reminding us to save space because there's more to come, but I just want to fill my face with the stuff; I've never had something so good and so warm, and I don't think I'll get the chance to again, so why not fill up?

"At least you two have decent manners," says Effie as we're finishing the main course. "The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion."

I pause in stuffing my face. The only reason I knew to use the tools next to my plate is because Cecil started using his silverware first, so Effie's comment irks me. Just for it, I eat the last course with my fingers. Effie does seem bothered by this, which makes me feel good, but Cecil takes it further by belching after he finishes the meal, which turns Effie's face downright green. I fight a smile, and Cecil avoids my eyes.

Next we go to another compartment to watch the recap of the reapings across Panem. They try to stagger them throughout the day so a person could conceivably watch the whole thing live, but only people in the Capitol could really do that, since none of them have to attend reapings themselves. One by one, we see the other reapings, the names called, (the volunteers stepping forward or, more often (except for our case), not). We examine the faces of the kids who will be our competition. I try to memorize people and threats, but the only thing that really sticks with me about each district are their names, and I could only get the first few districts down before my mind was overfilled.

District 1 yields the most ridiculous names of all: a huge seventeen-year-old boy with muscles the size of my head called Midas and a tall, slim girl with brown eyes so light they're almost red, whose name is Velca. District 2's tributes look too similar to District 3, so all of their faces are all muddled in my mind, but I know their names for the most part: Crassus and Perris from 2, and Hac and Eleria from 3. Other names that stick out to me but I can't remember from what districts: Carper, Challis, I wanna say Twill...

Goodness, it's gonna be impossible to get all these down. I just hope I remember enough to know the name of the person who kills me, at least.

Last of all, they show District 12. Daylily's name called first; me rushing forward from the crowd, volunteering with a loud, clear voice. I'm almost surprised at how steady I look; I sure didn't feel steady in the moment. I remember all of this happening but it's weird to see it from a new perspective. I've never seen myself on camera before. I watch myself mount the stage. The commentators are not sure what to say about the crowd's refusal to applaud. One says that District 12 has always been a bit backward but that local customs can be charming. As if on cue, Haymitch pukes on the stage, and they groan comically as he's taken off on a stretcher. Sam Hickory's name is drawn, and I'm not surprised to see they've cut out the part in between where everyone else was putting up a fight. Cecil volunteers and quietly takes his place on stage. We shake hands. They cut to the anthem again, and the program ends. Effie Trinket is disgruntled about the state her wig was in.

"Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior."

Cecil unexpectedly scoffs off her comment. "He was drunk."

"He's drunk every year."

"Every day," I add flatly. Effie Trinket makes it sound like Haymitch just has somewhat rough manners that could be corrected with a few tips from her. I know Haymitch has been like this for eleven years now, and I know why.

"Yes," hisses Effie Trinket. "How odd you two find it of such little concern. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!"

Just then, Haymitch staggers into the compartment. "I miss supper?" he says in a slurred voice. Then he vomits all over the expensive carpet and falls in the mess.

"So laugh away!" says Effie Trinket. She hops in her pointy shoes around the pool of vomit and flees the room.

The train keeps rolling on, putting miles between me and everything I've ever known or loved or hoped for. Cecil and I are told by the Peacekeepers that we're to spend our free time in our bedrooms, but I don't think it's a choice; when I shut my door behind me after supper, I hear a lock turn and know I'm stuck in here 'til morning. Not much to do except sit and think, and maybe stand under a freezing cold shower.

I'm not surprised they've locked me in. Actually, I'm just pleased I get my own room, with amenities nicer than I've got at home— I've heard horror stories about how they used to transport tributes between districts. A flimsy deadbolt on my door is nothing compared to being shut in an animal cage, kept out of the sun for days on end.

Only once before has one of our people— a Covey— gone into the Games. I wonder if she was subjected to the horrible way they used to treat tributes, back before they remembered these Games were for "entertainment" and we, the tributes, were the main characters in their show. They started treating us like real people, or as close as they could, way too recently for my liking. 

It's hard for me to think about the tributes that came before me, Covey or not, so I try not to for the rest of the evening. Clerk Carmine never liked talking about her anyway so I don't know much.

Thinking about CC makes me feel as though there's a big fist clutching my heart too tight, so that I can't breathe thanks to the tightness deep within my chest— I cough and start trying to draw in short, more panicked breaths, but nothing is coming in, and instead things start to come out: Sobs, choking noises, lumps of tears. I don't know where it came from and I don't know the last time I've cried like this, and I sure as hell can't stop it, but it doesn't feel good. It feels like something's trying to crawl out of my chest but the thing is bigger than I am so it just sits on my lungs and chokes me out until I start to see spots.

There's a weird knocking noise echoing through the room, and I think, for a minute, that it's my heartbeat, before I realize it's too quick and loud to be coming from me.

The other door in my bedroom— the one I'd assumed was an extra closet— shakes with another light knock, as though it's made of something really light. I quiet down for a second and realize I can hear right through it, just like whoever's on the other side can hear me. How embarrassing.

I jump to my feet and wipe my face, but, catching myself in the mirror, realize it did nothing to help. It's clear I've been crying. At least there's no cameras here to help.

The doorknob seems to be locked on my side of the wall, because it's jiggling now. I pad across the room toward it.

"Baird?"

I don't know who I was expecting, but Cecil's voice doesn't surprise me. Probably they keep the tributes on a completely different side of the train than the Capitol and Peacekeepers. What did I think, that Effie Trinket would come ask if I was okay?

Cecil is, shockingly, the only person I feel okay to talk to right now because he's the only person who knows what I'm going through. He understands what it's like to be a tribute now. I unlock the door that connects our bedrooms and he pulls it open.

He takes in the sight of me for a second, so I do the same, because what else can I do? He's tall, and while he isn't exactly muscular, he's not too skinny, which I take to mean he's got some athleticism in him. He can probably run really fast, but so can I, so that's probably even. I wonder if he can hold his breath like Sam Hickory and Daylily can; if so, he's got me beat. His face is hardened and I can't know what he's thinking before he tells me.

"Is there a reason you guys stopped singing?"

The question takes me by surprise, and I blink, letting my lips hang open in thought. I don't really know what to say, either, because the answer is that Lenore Dove died. That's why we stopped singing. Even though she didn't sing in public anymore long before she died.

I suppose, then, that Cecil's asking about me specifically. Me and Sam Hickory. Even after Lenore Dove died— which was what put CC backstage for good— Sam Hickory and I would still sing, though not onstage and not in front of official crowds anymore, of course. Just in small gatherings, or if we were out on the town one day and, on a whim, someone asked us to give a performance. It was rare, but it happened.

I guess Cecil might've been there for one of our one-off performances. Maybe a few of 'em. Probably he heard Burdock Everdeen the most, who never stopped singing even when the Peacekeepers wanted him to.

"Peacekeepers started resenting us," I answer him plainly, because it's the more logistical truth, and it's still true without me having to bring up Lenore Dove, which'll probably make me cry. I keep the thought of her to myself. "They used to love watching us, came and saw us on their nights off, and everything—or so Clerk Carmine says. Something changed their mind, I guess. Maybe when Cray took over, or maybe it was orders from higher up. But something changed their mind."

He nods. It's an awkward position we're in, and we both realize it at once, I think; facing each other on opposite sides of the doorway between our two rooms. Cecil steps to the side and lets me in his room. It's identical to mine—bed, wardrobe, bathroom—all except for the char marks trailing all down the furthest back wall, like someone took a flame and held it as close to the wallpaper as they could without it catching on fire. It's in a pattern, I can tell, like a rough sketch of coal burning in a large pile. An image of coal, I think, by a medium of the same thing.

I gesture to the artwork. "That you?"

He shakes his head, gazing at it. "An old tribute, probably. I think the one from 12 a couple years ago who fought all the other tributes with fire."

"Oh yeah." I remember him. Maybe four or five years ago, a tribute from 12's chosen weapon was flames. He was burning other tributes alive, and it took them a while to go; their deaths were painful and loud. No matter where the cameras went around the arena, you could hear someone who was on fire, screaming for death to take them. Eventually the Capitol got sick of watching and listening to it, so they sent in some mutts and our guy from 12 died pretty quickly.

It's nice to see they left his work up, here in the tribute's quarters. Leaves some memory of him. He's not completely erased. Then I think they probably have no idea he did this. How often does anyone come into these rooms besides us tributes?

"He worked for my pa," says Cecil, his eyes still stuck on the ash-painted walls. I look to him, surprised to find his expression stony, emotionless. I guess his pa wasn't as good to him as Clerk Carmine was to me.

"Your pa didn't work in the mines?" I regret asking as soon as I say it, but it's too late and I can't put words back into my mouth after they leave it. But I am curious, admittedly. Most if not all men from the Seam work in the mines their whole life. Burdock's been down there ever since I was young, and Sam Hickory's just on the cusp of being drafted, even though we're technically not Seam. We're Covey. That distinction never mattered much to the people in charge.

"Nah," says Cecil, still not looking at me. "He works in the Hob. That's why he wasn't at the reaping, he was at work."

"What's he sell?"

"White liquor. It's how he hasn't gotten arrested yet; Cray's his biggest customer."

I smile a little. That doesn't surprise me. Cray's the second biggest alcoholic we've got in 12, bested only by Haymitch himself. I've always found it strange how the Peacekeepers were the only ones allowed to break the rules, but I stopped looking for fairness a long time ago.

"So your pa works in the Hob," I carry on, trying to keep my voice light, but I'm pretty sure family is the last thing Cecil wants to talk about right now. "What about your mama? I saw her at the reaping."

His face hardens even more, which I didn't think was possible and am surprised by, but it's not like he would notice my shock because he still doesn't turn to look at me. I even had the grace to cringe at my own brashness, and he doesn't even acknowledge it. I wonder if this is gonna be his tactic for the entirety of the Games.

"She don't work," he tells me, his voice deep and sounding, interestingly enough, as though he's choked up. "Not since we lost Wiley."

Well, shit.

I've talked myself into a hole here. I honestly hadn't been expecting Cecil to talk about his younger brother at all—not like I would, if I were in his shoes—so I don't know how to reply to this statement, especially considering how straightforward he delivered it.

I remember Wiley, now Cecil reminds me his name. He was a real treat to run into when you were out on the Seam for some reason or another. Had a smile like the sun and words of kindness for everyone. I can't recall ever speaking to him—and why would I—but I know Sam Hickory was fond of him. I think he was eleven when he died maybe five or six months ago.

Five or six months since Mrs. Eubank lost her youngest son, and now she's lost her eldest. I can't help but think of her, of how horribly she must be grieving already.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly. What else is there to say?

"You got any family?" he says now, all casual, like he didn't just mention his dead baby brother. "I don't know much about your folk."

I clear my throat and shake my head to recuperate from the sudden change in tone and try to match it as best I can, ignoring the whiplash he's giving me. I think it's gonna be real hard to try and narrow down what Cecil's values are, because he seems to be trying to confuse me at every turn.

"Only Sam Hickory and Clerk Carmine," I say, shrugging. "We're not related, not really, but they're my family."

"So you don't have a mama?"

I blink. "No."

"Did you ever?"

I cough. It crosses my mind that he's trying to play with me and get my thoughts all twisted so I won't be a threat to him in the arena, but what makes him think I'd be a threat in the first place? He's got no reason to burn whatever bridge has already unwittingly formed between us, so I think he's genuinely asking me these things. No ill intent behind him whatsoever. It surprises me. Then again, this boy seems to be full of surprises.

"'Course I did," I say, with a scoff of laughter to keep things light. "She's back in 12. Six feet under now, sure, but she existed once. Someone had to give birth to me."

"Oh," says Cecil, and I'm only a little bit pleased to see that he's taken aback by this. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't have asked, I just... Well, I never saw her grave in the cemetery, or anything, so I didn't think..."

"Nah, you wouldn't," I tell him. "We Covey bury our kin somewhere they can't be bothered."

"Yeah?" Cecil perks up slightly in a way I haven't seen him do before. Maybe the thought of being buried somewhere secret interests him. Maybe that's what he wanted all along: To get out of 12. "Where's that?"

I smile. "Your mama ever sang you 'Deep In The Meadow'?"

He wobbles his head like he has to think about it, then nods, lifting his shoulders. "Sure, I have."

"Deep in the meadow," I say again. "Under the willow."

Cecil nods again, and I can see the understanding in his eyes, and I know that he never thought twice about that song. Mamas all around 12 sing it to put their kids to bed, sure, but it used to be a Covey song, a long time ago. It spread around the district quick enough, but none of them know they're sending their kids off to sleep to the melody-ridden compass to our Covey gravestones.

Soon we look out Cecil's window and both realize the sun has gone down, so that all we can see passing us by is an inky black horizon. We bid each other goodnight, though there's nothing good about it, and I head back through the door separating our two rooms. I think of the pajama set waiting for me in my wardrobe, set there by Capitol hands for me to pamper myself in, and cringe at the thought of accepting it. Instead I strip my pants and shirt and climb into bed in my undergarments. It's a bed that's probably a hundred times more expensive than mine at home and the sheets are made of a fine, silky material that glides across my skin, but I still like I've just laid down on a bed of nails.

I could do anything to go back home, I think. Anything except kill all those kids in the arena with me. And that might be why I lose.

I hope Sam Hickory knows I'll have tried, and I hope he tells Daylily I wasn't afraid at all when I was saying goodbye to him and CC. I wonder if they're together now. Sam Hickory's probably spending the night at CC's place, which is good—I wouldn't want either of them to be alone tonight, or for the rest of their lives. Daylily's probably got at least one of her younger siblings in bed with her. Most of them liked me, and I think they'll miss me—especially the second-youngest of them, the only other girl, Delly, who really liked having another girl around and would practice braiding my hair when Daylily got sick of her.

If I'm going to cry, now is the time to do it. By morning, I'll be able to wash the damage done by the tears from my face. But no tears come. I'm too tired or too numb to cry. The only thing I feel is a desire to be somewhere else. So I let the train rock me into oblivion.

Gray light is leaking through the curtains when the rapping rouses me. I hear Effie Trinket's voice, calling me to rise. "Up, up, up! It's going to be a big, big, big day!"

I wonder what possibly goes on in her head that she has enough energy to say things three times in a row. I can hardly even open my eyes, but I force myself to.

I put the outfit from yesterday back on since it's not really dirty, just slightly crumpled from spending the night on the floor. Tap's whistle is still tucked in the back pocket and I pull it out to run it through my palms. I put it to my lips and consider blowing it, then think it's probably too early for that. Then I decide it's never too early for music. I blow one measly little note and then hear a crash from the dining car and nearly jump out of my skin.

I shove the whistle back into my pocket and wrench my bedroom door open, which I'm happy to find unlocked this morning. When I enter the dining car, I'm not surprised to find Haymitch as the source of the disturbance; his plate, once piled full with rich breakfast food, is on the floor at his feet; the ceramic is shattered and the food is smooshed.

Effie brushes by me with a mug of something smelling strongly. She mutters obscenities under her breath. Cecil is already seated at the table, across from Haymitch, quietly indulging in his breakfast. He acts as though he doesn't notice what's going on across the table. Haymitch, however, is halfway between bending down to gather his food and shattered plate, when he notices my entrance.

"Sit down," says Haymitch sourly, waving me over, still halfway beneath the table. His face is red and puffy from yesterday's indulgences. The moment I slide into my chair I'm served an enormous platter of food. Eggs, ham, piles of fried potatoes. A tureen of fruit sits in ice to keep it chilled. The basket of rolls they set before me would keep CC and Sam Hickory going for a week. There's an elegant glass of orange juice. At least, I think it's orange juice; it's juice and it's orange, so I imagine so. A cup of coffee, which, now I'm able to smell it for the first time, is what Effie's drinking today.

I eat like Cecil does, quiet and slow, because I know my stomach isn't used to so much food and I don't want to feel as sick as I did after supper last night. The food's good, but anything's better than what I usually eat in 12. I think about yesterday's breakfast, with Sam Hickory and Daylily: Blackberries and peppermints. I decide I like yesterday's meal better.

Once my stomach is full again, I lean back in my seat and watch Haymitch, who doesn't even seem to realize I'm at his elbow. He gave up on cleaning up the broken plate at his feet and is instead focusing now on a glass full of red juice that he keeps thinning with clear liquid from a bottle. Judging by the fumes, it's some kind of spirit, but I don't have much experience in the area so I would have no idea what kind. Still, I know it's liquor, and I know he'll be incoherent by the time we reach the Capitol. It's disappointing, and I realize I detest Haymitch.

This Haymitch, at least. The old one was kind to me and let me ride on his shoulders and played jokes with me. This one—this Haymitch that I haven't spoken to in eleven years—won't even look me in the eye. Clerk Carmine kept the whole story of what happened to Haymitch in his Games as secret as he could—he didn't want two kids as young as Sam Hickory and me knowing the truth—but I think it can't have been that bad. I mean, he spends every day so drunk he can't hardly walk straight. At a certain point, that falls on him, not the Capitol.

And another thing that falls on Haymitch? The fact that there's no more District 12 Victors behind him. He's the one who has to mentor them, after all, and it's no wonder to me now that they never stand a chance. Some of our tributes have still been strong enough to make a go of it. But we rarely get sponsors and he's a big part of the reason why. The rich people who back tributes—either because they're betting on them or simply for the bragging rights of picking a winner—expect someone classier than Haymitch to deal with.

We always say when a gypsy is hungry, he whistles. When a Haymitch is awake, I think now, he drinks.

Cecil has been watching him as long as I have, and I can tell he's thinking the same thing as me by the scowling look on his face. He swallows his roll and leans forward in his chair toward Haymitch. If I were Haymitch, I would be intimidated, I think. But he just lifts his tired eyes from his bottle and smacks his lips together.

"You're supposed to start giving us advice," says Cecil expectantly, not taking his eyes off Haymitch.

I'm not surprised that Haymitch acts as though Cecil never said anything at all. He returns to his bottle, messily standing from his seat at the table. Slowly he moves to the other side of the room. Then he gestures loosely to the open space in front of him.

"Stand over here," he says, his voice grouchy with sleep. "Now."

Cecil and I exchange a look, then obey, moving to stand in front of him in the center of the room. Haymitch circles us, eyeing our muscle, our athleticism, our skill. Well, he might find something promising on Cecil, but all I'm good for is singing. I know there's no chance for me, and Haymitch would agree, although as he moves in front of me I realize he isn't even looking at me. Just Cecil.

"You're not entirely hopeless," he says, examining Cecil's face. "Seem fit enough. And once the stylists get ahold of you, you'll be attractive enough, too."

I try not to get angry, but Haymitch is acting like I'm not even here. He pats Cecil on the shoulder and circles back over to the breakfast table to inspect the fruit bowl.

"I'll make a deal with you," he says. "You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you."

Cecil doesn't reply, but I think he's considering it. I'm so mad I can hardly see straight. I bite the inside of my cheek so hard it stings. I'm pretty used to being overlooked, but this is different. This isn't a Peacekeeper pretending not to hear me sing on the corner. This is my own mentor, sizing up his tributes like cattle, and deciding one is worth the trouble and the other's not even worth a second glance.

I'm still standing there like a fool, trying to figure out if I should say something, when Haymitch, plucking a bruised apple out of the bowl, says to me, "You can sit down."

Something cracks inside of me, and I hear it echo through my mind like a broken fiddle string.

I don't move. I don't even blink. If he thinks I'm going to crawl off like a kicked dog, he's got another thing coming.

Next to me, Cecil looks as he always does—bored. He shuffles his feet, glances at me, then at Haymitch, but doesn't say anything. Of course he doesn't. It's not his job to defend me. It never has been. I learned a long time ago that if you're waiting for someone else to stand up for you, you'll be waiting your whole life.

And besides... Haymitch has got a point, doesn't he? All I've got is a pretty voice and callouses from playing the fiddle. In the arena, that'll get me about as far as the first cannon shot.

I open my mouth, not even sure what I mean to say—something smart, maybe. Something meaner. Something to make him realize I'm here, that I'm more than some song he's tired of hearing.

But Haymitch has already turned his back. Staggering toward the liquor cabinet like he's forgotten me completely.

"You're wrong, you know," I say desperately. "It's not always the biggest dog that wins a fight."

Haymitch doesn't even flinch. Just waves one hand loosely over his shoulder like he's swatting away a fly. "Good luck with that, sweetheart."

Via Chatter

"Clerk Carmine kept the whole story of what happened to Haymitch in his Games as secret as he could—he didn't want two kids as young as Sam Hickory and me knowing the truth—but I think it can't have been that bad. I mean, he spends every day so drunk he can't hardly walk straight. At a certain point, that falls on him, not the Capitol."

This was painful for me to write btw