I think this has to be a joke. A sick one, but a joke nonetheless. It has to be. How else would not just one but both of the eligible Covey be picked today? How else would I be standing on a stage preparing for the Hunger Games while Effie Trinket reads out the name of my brother?

My heart doesn't even have time to break.

The cameras are already searching the crowd for him, but they don't have to look far because there's a shuffling as the boys around him skirt away, leaving him in the middle of a hole. The cameras land on him, and there I see, close-up, the face of Sam Hickory. He doesn't even look sad. Just angry.

For a moment, there's silence. I'm standing on stage, staring at the image of Sam Hickory, who still has not moved, wondering how this could have gone so wrong so quickly. Nobody says anything, not even Effie Trinket. I think bleakly that it's a good thing Haymitch isn't here to see both of his remaining ties to Lenore Dove being reaped.

Then Clerk Carmine's voice steals the silence.

"NO!" he bellows, and at this he actually tries to make it toward the front of the crowd, but the Peacekeepers must have been expecting this because they're already on him. He's a big man, bigger than any of them, but they have weapons and he doesn't. He's on his knees in a moment, submissive to the authority, though I can see his eyes are swimming with tears as he looks up at the stage.

The silence, however, has been broken, and the crowd begins to murmur and ripple. People are angry. I hear Sam Hickory's name intertwined with mine, muttered from all around as though they're surrounding us.

"That ain't right!" I hear someone call, but I know it's pointless. Since when has the Capitol cared about what's fair?

I can't move. Neither can Sam Hickory. His face has gone as pale as milk, and I know he's not thinking about himself, just like how I'm not thinking about him. We're both thinking about CC. About how we're all he has left. CC, alone in that crooked house, tending to the geese he never liked and watching our instruments collect dust. No one to catch the fish anymore.

"Ain't even eligible!" someone cries. I feel a rush of odd relief. At least someone else can recognize that.

I can't understand why they're so mad, at first. Then I start to understand. They aren't looking at two tributes; they're looking at a tragedy, at the slow eradication of the Covey. These people have watched us perform for years, watched my ancestors perform, sang along at the tops of their voices. Our songs are their culture, their joy. Now our songs are being cut short all at once.

I wonder if the Capitol is doing this on purpose, this annihilation of 12's culture. Then I remember my name wasn't even called. I chose this path. Sam Hickory just got unlucky.

Something in the crowd starts to shift. Sam Hickory still hasn't moved, but everyone else doesn't seem to mind, and it's then I realize: this isn't mourning. It's fury. They're shouting, and someone is holding Sam Hickory back so he doesn't have to head up to the stage.

This is the closest thing I have ever seen to a rebellion, and it's because of me and Sam Hickory. I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

Then— and it seems to silence everyone else, even though his voice doesn't carry very far in the first place— someone calls out the same words I'd done a few moments earlier.

"I volunteer."

His tone is steady, calculated. He doesn't yell, but he doesn't need to; the crowd parts around him and I get a good look at his face, at whose heart has just saved my brother.

He has dark skin, darker than most of 12, usually, but probably part of it is due to how much time he has already spent in the mines. He's eighteen. This was his last year in the reaping. I recognize his face, that hardened demeanor and silvery eyes that shine with determination. I know him because, I think, his little brother passed to the Black Lung a couple months ago.

Cecil Eubank just volunteered for Sam Hickory, and with, what seems to me, absolutely no good reason.

He doesn't need any shepherding to get to the stage like I did. He walks with his head high, jaw tight, eyes locked straight ahead. Though the crowd fell silent at his volunteering, I hear a woman's— unmistakably a mother's— cries from the back of the crowd. It's then that I'm assured it was the Eubanks who experienced the loss that made him seem so familiar to me, because that's the cry of a woman who has lost not one but two of her children.

Effie Trinket, who looks as though she had nearly started crying during the momentary outrage, blinks her large, spider-like eyelashes. She seems to not care much about what's "traditional" for a volunteer anymore.

"And... you are?"

"Cecil Eubank," he says, climbing the stairs to join me on stage. "And I volunteer as tribute."

People are stunned. I can't say I don't feel the same way. There's no reason— none that I or anyone else can think of— that Cecil would volunteer to take Sam Hickory's place in the Hunger Games. He's eighteen; this was his last reaping. And he's an attractive man; I don't doubt he could easily marry, start a family, make a living with the people he loved. Not to mention he has no ties to me or to Sam Hickory. This hardly happens even in the higher up districts, and it's not like we're careers.

The murmurs pick up again, this time lower, more confused. I don't blame them.

Effie claps her hands awkwardly, trying to rally. "What a day! Two volunteers! What spirit! District 12, you never fail to—"

But no one's listening to her anymore.

All I can see is Sam Hickory, still frozen in place, and Clerk Carmine collapsed in the crowd with a defeated look on his face. Daylily is still sobbing. She looks as though she can hardly breathe. Someone's there next to her, holding her, and I can't tell from this distance but I think it's Asterid Everdeen, no doubt with some calming herb of sort in her hand. It doesn't seem to be doing the trick.

I can't watch Daylily any longer unless I want to start crying here, and that's not an option. The only option I have as of now is to get back to her. Or maybe Cecil will— he's stronger, taller, no doubt faster. He'll have better chances than me. Maybe I can get him to tell Daylily I fought for her.

The mayor finishes the dreary Treaty of Treason and motions for Cecil and me to shake hands. His are as solid and calloused, tired from work. Cecil looks me in the eye and shakes my hand, firm and strong. He doesn't even look scared. I wish I had his confidence.

We turn back to face the crowd as the anthem of Panem plays, but I'm focused on whatever's going on with Effie and the Peacekeepers. One of them carried a message over from a cameraman, and now he's talking in low, quick words to Effie that I can't hear over the trumpet sounds of the anthem. Effie looks panicked, though. Is something wrong?

I barely have time to wonder if the reaping footage got messed up somehow, or why else Effie would be so upset, when the trumpets blast the final refrain of the Gem of Panem. I barely register the last piercing note before the crowd dissolves into uneasy silence. The Capitol seal vanishes from the screen behind us.

Then: marching boots. White uniforms.

A whole flock of Peacekeepers start toward us, more than they ever send up during a normal Reaping. Effie hurries to say something to the crowd but her voice is tight and too high, like she's afraid of what might happen if she doesn't keep smiling. I don't listen to what she says, but it makes the crowd angry again; there's another uproar in shouting and pushing.

Cecil and I, however, are already being ushered off the stage, herded toward the doors the mayor and Effie came through. Through town hall, toward the train station. Not toward the Justice Building.

"Hey," I say weakly, and slow my footsteps to disrupt the Peacekeepers' march. "Hey, what about the Justice Building, don't we get to— to say goodbye?"

None of them answer me, just keep marching onward, which makes me mad because I asked them a question.

"Hey." I say it louder this time and plant my feet. Nobody's going anywhere until I get an answer. "What about the Justice Building?"

Cecil, who has stopped in synchrony with me, looks between me and the Peacekeepers. I think he wants an answer, too, but he doesn't say anything. I wonder if he's thinking about his mama.

"Keep walking," says one of the Peacekeepers roughly, and jerks me by the shoulder so I stumble on. Cecil interferes and stands between me and the Peacekeeper; suddenly, this is a face-off. I wait for the Peacekeepers to draw their guns, to threaten us into submission, but none of them do. Maybe they don't want another Woodbine Chance situation.

"We get to say goodbye to our people," says Cecil. He's the same height as the Peacekeeper he's standing toe-to-toe with. I stand slightly behind him; however smaller in stature I may be, I hope I make up for in determination. "It's tradition."

A gruff voice echoes through the town hall, and Cecil and I turn to see the Head Peacekeeper, Cray, storming up the main stairs from the way we came in, his boots tapping on the stone tile floors.

"Tradition failed when you two got up on your high horses and volunteered," he tells us, and I cannot for the life of me understand why he'd be mad at that. He has a weapon, though, and is the first to aim it at us— an incentive to carry on without any more complaints. "Keep walking."

"Cray, please," says another voice— a softer one, much less gravely than Cray's. Effie Trinket climbs the stairs into the town hall on delicate feet, walking lightly on her toes, the sun catching her pink wig deliciously so that it resembles a gentrified beehive. "They are owed, I think, an explanation. At least."

I've never seen Effie this close. Her teeth, which she bares at me and Cecil in a wide smile, are whiter than chalk, and her lips are painted alarmingly bright pink. She appears to have fixed her wig in the time between giving her farewell address to the district and joining us in the town hall, so that it sits straight on her head now and joins her forehead where the white paint of her face ends.

For a moment, no one says anything. The Peacekeepers keep their guns down but their grips are tight. Cray is staring daggers at her. Effie just smiles. A rehearsed, Capitol smile. Then she turns to me and Cecil.

"I know this isn't what you were expecting," she says, her voice sugarcoated and pinched, "and it certainly isn't... ideal. But we've received word from the Capitol that today's Reaping has caused some"—she glances sideways at Cray, searching for the right word—"concern."

"Concern?" I echo, the word meaning nothing to me.

"It's nothing to worry about," she says quickly, too quickly. "But there were... murmurings in the crowd. Reactions the Capitol considers sensitive. Shouting, fist-shaking, the like. Throwing."

"Throwing?" says Cecil. We are just two parrots.

"Throwing," confirms Effie with a terse nod. "Of bottles, and stones, and— well, trinkets."

She laughs lightly as though expecting us to do the same. Then, after gauging our blank reaction, her smile fades, and she folds her hands in front of her like she's wrapping herself in a ribbon. "So. For safety reasons— and to keep the Peace— it has been decided that there will be no formal goodbyes this year. Not in Twelve."

I stare at Effie until she has the decency to look away.

No formal goodbyes?

I feel like someone's taken a shovel to my chest. Knocked the breath right out of me.

"No— no," I say, the words struggling to get out. "You don't get to take that too."

"It's not me," Effie says softly, and she has the decency to stop smiling. There's something like genuine sadness in her eyes, but I don't care. "It's the Capitol."

Of course it's the Capitol. I hardly have the energy to be angry.

They take everything and they don't even have the decency to look guilty about it. They call it "precaution." They call it "peace." They call it necessary. No Peacekeepers, no Peace.

But it's punishment. I know it. Everyone in that square knows it. This will make people angrier than they already were, but it's not as though they'll do anything about it. Why is 12 the most impoverished district? Because we're exhausted from being beaten down and punished. Every time we try to stand up, they knock us back down, hit us where it hurts. First they reap our children. Now they don't give us the chances to say goodbye to our loved ones, whom we will perhaps never see again.

It's punishment, I'm sure, for Sam Hickory, who they never liked because he didn't play quiet. Punishment for Clerk Carmine for surviving too many of us. Punishment for Daylily, who I knew had too many people relying on her to go into that arena. Punishment for me. I just don't know how yet. 

And, I think, punishment for a district that still knows how to grieve out loud.

A heavy silence shrouds and follows my thoughts, thick enough to drown in. I know Cecil's mind sounds similar to mine by the look on his face. Even Effie looks pained. She opens her mouth again— maybe to offer some simpering, empty condolence— but the words never come because the doors swing open behind us with a crash.

The sound turns heads. Effie startles. Cray reaches for his belt. The Peacekeepers stiffen, not because they expect a threat— no one threatens in District 12— but because of who they see.

Haymitch Abernathy staggers through the entranceway.

He looks like he's just woken up from the floor of a bar, which, if I hadn't seen him at the reaping, I would've assumed he had just come from the bar. His shirt is stained with something I hope is liquor, and his hair's sticking up like he got mixed up with some bramble on the way over. But his gaze, his eyes...

They're awake, sharp. Mean, even.

"What the hell is this?" he slurs, waving one arm toward us, toward Cray, toward Effie. "You're really gonna send 'em off like cattle? I thought we were past that, Effie."

"Haymitch," Effie begins, smoothing her skirt, blinking fast, "the Capitol has issued very clear guidance regarding—"

"Yeah, I bet they have," Haymitch cuts in, rubbing his jaw like he's trying to shake the sleep off. "Bet they said, 'scare 'em early, crush 'em young, don't let 'em hug their mamas.' Real wholesome stuff."

"It's a precaution," Cray says flatly.

Haymitch stares at him for a long beat, then snorts. Laughs, almost, but mirthlessly. "You think this'll keep anyone safe?"

"It's not about safety," I point out, my voice hollow. "They're punishing us."

Haymitch glances at me for the first time, and something shifts behind his bloodshot eyes. I wonder if he sees me, or if he sees her.

Lenore Dove.

CC says I look like her at this age. I have no idea what that must be like for Haymitch; he got older, he gets to grow up, but his Lenore Dove will always remain the same age. I'm about to die just the same.

He doesn't say her name, even though I know he's thinking of her. He just rubs a hand over his face like he's trying to wipe the past off of it and diverts his eyes so he doesn't have to look at me.

"You think not letting them say goodbye is gonna keep people in line?" Haymitch asks Cray, calmer now, voice low and ragged. "That's not peace. That's just cruelty. And every one of those people out there knows it."

Cray opens his mouth, but Haymitch is already waving him off, stumbling a bit as he steps toward Effie. "Let them go in. Five minutes. No camera crew. Don't make this worse than it already is."

Effie hesitates, painted mouth twitching like she wants to protest, but she can't meet his eyes.

Haymitch nods toward us. "Move."

Neither Cray nor the Peacekeepers object. Not out loud. Which means they know he's right, and they don't want a scene.

I don't mind either way. I get to say goodbye to my people. Five minutes ago, this wouldn't have been a luxury. Now, I've never been more grateful for bending the rules.

I can tell, though, that this must be some sort of manipulation strategy on the Capitol's part. They've done it to the districts before; cut us off for something, dangle it over our heads until we're physically on the brink of extinction, then hand it back to us like they're doing us a favor. They make problems, and they make solutions great enough to make us forget that they caused the issue in the first place.

But I can't help but be surprised that it's Haymitch who advocated for this. Haymitch Abernathy, who's built up a reputation as nothing more than a stumbling, slurring drunkard who pukes at reaping ceremonies and hardly pays his mentees any attention once they hit the Capitol, because the Capitol's got the good drinks and his tributes have no chances of winning. Haymitch, who is typically so disconnected from his role in these Games.

It sure is a shock, and selfishly I wonder if it's because of me that he made this happen. Then I realize it probably isn't. He's doing this for Lenore Dove, whom he never got to say goodbye to.

Either way, I don't mind. I get to see Daylily one last time.

Cecil and I are taken back into custody. I don't mean handcuffed or anything, but the Peacekeepers surround us again and march us through another door of the town hall and across the street toward the Justice Building. I know this is when past tributes have attempted their escape, but I also know they never got further than ten steps away before being reprimanded for it.

Once inside, I'm conducted to a room and left alone, separated from Cecil for the first time since our fates have been intertwined. It's the finest place I've ever been in, with thick, deep carpets and a velvet couch and chairs. I know velvet because we sing about how soft it is, but I've never felt it for myself before. When I sit on the couch, I can't help running my fingers over the fabric repeatedly. It helps to calm me as I try to prepare for the next five minutes. It's not fair, not at all, because the typical time allotted for this goodbye is an hour, but I know I'm lucky to be getting one at all, and I shouldn't start crying now. I can't afford to get upset, to leave this room with puffy eyes and a red nose. There will be more cameras at the train station.

The door clicks open, and my first visitors arrive.

Clerk Carmine walks like the floor is unfamiliar beneath him, like he's aged ten years in ten minutes, and he looks it too. His coat's on crooked and he's holding his hat in one hand, crumpled like he forgot what it was for. Sam Hickory follows close behind— his shoulders drawn tight, mouth set like he's forcing himself to look braver than he feels.

I almost wish they'd come in yelling; angry and desperate and screaming at me asking why I did it. I could deal with that. But this quiet— they just look at me, and that's worse. That's what makes me want to cry again.

Clerk Carmine is the one to move first. He crosses the room in a few long steps and pulls me into him without saying a word. His chin rests on top of my head like it did when I was a little girl and too proud to cry but I was safe in his arms, and for a second, I let myself lean into it. I'm still a girl, still too proud to cry, but I'm not safe anymore. Not even CC's arms can protect me from what's coming.

"You shouldn't have done it," he says, voice gruff and close to cracking. "You know that."

"I do," I say, even though it's not the truth. I still don't know what made me do it; I don't know anything. I just know I couldn't let Daylily go.

He pulls back and looks me over like he's memorizing my face. "You look so much like her. Especially now."

I nod and have to swallow thickly, because I've been waiting for him to tell me this ever since Sam Hickory pointed it out a year or so ago. Clerk Carmine never wanted to talk about it, about her, but now, I guess, it's free rein. Since I won't be here in an hour.

"Lenore Dove," I say quietly.

He nods once, sharp and painful. "You've got her eyes. Same fire in 'em, too. It'll get you killed if you don't learn to aim it."

I nod, trying not to choke on the thickness in my throat. "I'll try."

That's all I can promise. He seems to understand that.

Then it's Sam Hickory who steps forward. He doesn't hug me, not right away. Just stands there, arms folded, his lips tight like he's trying not to cry or scream or both.

"You're so dumb," he says quietly.

I huff out a laugh through my nose, and I'm surprised to realize it feels real.

"You're not exactly the cake with the cream yourself."

He nods, jaw clenched, mouth not even twitching with a smile. Then finally, finally, he hugs me. Tight and desperate. His face is pressed against my shoulder.

"I should've gone," he whispers. "I should've found a way. Coulda argued with Eubank when he volunteered—"

"No," I tell him. "You have to stay."

"Yeah?" he asks, his voice shaking. "Why's that?"

"So someone remembers me the right way."

It's the only goodbye I think he can handle. He nods against my shoulder and pulls back, blinking fast. "Win, okay? Or ruin it. Just don't disappear in there."

"You know I won't." I manage a smile, but it's more for him than it is for me. "I'll leave a trail. Someone's gotta."

I already know it's a lie, and I think he can see it, too. There's no chance I last in there longer than I can count to ten, much less make any impact on the Games as a whole.

A knock comes at the door. One of the Peacekeepers gives a sharp warning from the other side.

Clerk Carmine steps in again to take my hand one more time. "Whatever happens," he says, "don't let them strip you of yourself. Don't let them turn you into somethin' you're not."

He squeezes my hand so tight it hurts. But I hold on anyway.

"I'm not worried about any of that," I tell him, my words croaky as I force them through the lump in my throat. "I just don't want them to take my voice."

CC looks pained, like he has something more to say, but then the Peacekeeper is at the door, signaling our time is up, and we're all hugging one another so hard it hurts and all I'm saying is "I love you," and they're saying it back and then the Peacekeeper orders them out and the door closes. I bury my head in one of the velvet pillows as if this can block the whole thing out.

I am dangerously close to crying now.

Someone else enters the room, and when I look up, I'm not surprised to see my girl flying across the room at me. I'm barely on my feet quick enough to catch her in my arms. We stumble back a few steps, but her grip is tight and true and I'm not letting go either.

I've held my Daylily in the dark before. Held her in the field, in the lake, in the woods before the sun came up when the world was just ours. But I've never held her like this. This is what it feels like, I decide, when the world is ending.

"I thought—" she starts, but her voice snags on itself. "I didn't think they were gonna let me in, it didn't sound like they were..."

"I would've torn through the walls if they hadn't," I tell her, because it's true.

She lets out a laugh that stutters and snaps apart in the middle. Her face is buried in my shoulder, and her whole body is shaking now— this awful, silent tremble like her bones are trying not to shatter.

"You always say things like that," she breathes, and she pulls back from my shoulder so I can see her face. Her eyes are bloodshot, wet and wide, and her bottom lip is trembling so hard it makes my own mouth ache. "Like you'd burn the whole place down for me."

"I would," I say. "Hand me a match."

She stares at me, somewhere between a sob and a smile.

"You're too much of a lover," she says, voice cracking, and raises a hand to cradle my face. Her thumb swipes just beneath my eye like she's trying to memorize the shape of me. She smells like lemons and the outside. Like home. "They'll try to take that from you, so you just gotta love louder and harder than they ever could. You better not let them put that fire out."

"I won't," I say, even though I've already resigned to how hard it's going to be. "Promise I won't."

"No," she says, shaking her head like she's trying to rattle the swear out of me before it can harden into something she doesn't believe. "No, Claribel Rose. I don't want promises. I want fury. I want you to be you in there. The one who never lets a lie sit too long, who had Capitol cameras panning away because they couldn't keep up. I want them to choke on you before they have to spit you out back home to me."

Her voice is a fist. It slams into my chest harder than any blow I've ever taken, and I'm surprised, because she means it. She wants me angry. She wants me messy and radiant and impossible to smother.

"I'll be loud," I whisper, and there's so much awe in my tone that I can't imagine how it must look on my face. "I'll be yours as you know me. They won't know what to do with me."

"Good," she says. "Scare the hell out of them."

She leans forward and kisses me like we've only got one left. It isn't sweet or soft or slow, like they usually are. It's desperate. Fierce. The kind of kiss that bruises.

Secretly, I hope it does. If I'm gonna be showboated around for the entire country to see, let them know who my heart belongs to.

My eyes are burning now, but I can't cry. Not yet. I want her to remember me steady. I want her to remember this version of me, standing strong in our goodbye.

The knock comes again. That short, clipped knock that means time's run out, and then she's gone, my girl's gone, and it feels to me like she's taken all the oxygen with her. I can't breathe. I don't know what to do now; I feel dizzy and I need to sit down or throw up or cry but I don't have the time to before the door opens again and my next visitor is here.

He's small, that's the first thing I notice. Second thing is that I don't know his name, just his face.

He's probably half the size of the rest of the boys his age, but there's something in his eyes that makes you realize he knows more than he looks. And his hair is too sandy— he sticks out among the brunette and raven-colored hair of 12.

I don't know his name, but I know who he is. This is the boy from the Hob who can't hear.

I don't understand why he's here. I don't think we've ever so much as looked at each other. Once or twice, maybe, I caught him watching us during Covey performances— pressed to the edge of the crowd, letting the vibration of strings hum through his boots. I might've smiled. He might've nodded. But that was all.

He crosses the room on uneven feet, his hands twisting together in front of himself. He is not weepy or evasive, like my other visitors. Instead there's something like an urgency in his movements that surprises me.

"Hey there," I say gently, careful to move my lips slow and wave my hand a little so he knows I'm talking to him. "Um... what's your name?"

I gesture toward him, not quite sure if I'm communicating anything coherent. It probably doesn't matter— he's already watching my mouth, reading every word with that hawk-eyed focus.

He jabs his thumb toward his chest. Me?

I nod, and he lifts both hands, striking his index finger against the back of his opposite palm— once, twice. A sharp little rhythm. Tap. Tap.

I blink. "Sorry?"

The boy nods patiently, as though he had expected me not to get it. He repeats the motion, slower this time, eyes steady on mine like he's willing me to see it.

And I do.

I remember those performances we used to give. Covey strings tuning up in the Hob, and this boy standing off to the side, tapping that same rhythm into a crate, keeping time even though he couldn't hear the notes. Just felt them.

"Tap," I say, and a small, stunned smile finds its way to my mouth. "I remember you, Tap. How's it goin'?"

He smiles, too, and I can tell he's not only happy but relieved I remember him. I'm relieved, too, though I don't know why. He gives me a thumbs up in response to my question, then gestures toward me, raising his eyebrows.

I narrow my eyes in thought, then raise my hand, palm-down, and wobble it side to side.

"Been better," I tell him honestly, but I'm surprised there's no desperation in my tone anymore. Tap's presence has calmed me, somehow. Taken my mind off what's to come. Maybe that's why he's visiting.

Tap nods at my answer like he can understand it perfectly. Maybe he doesn't need to hear the words to feel what I mean. His gaze drops for a second as he digs into his pocket and pulls something out, cupping it gently in both hands like it might break.

He steps forward and holds it out to me.

It's a whistle. Small. Wooden. The grain is rough and uneven in places, like it was carved by someone who's still learning. There's no string looped through it yet— just the whistle itself, warm from his hands, waiting in the space between us.

I take it carefully, and the second my fingers close around it, something presses into the back of my throat. Not fear, not grief— something quieter. Whatever it is, it hurts.

He points at the whistle, then points at me. Then he mimes crafting something in a loose, quick way; then he clasps his fist against his chest. Finally, he spreads his hands out far and wide, ending the sequence with a gun made from his fingers. Danger in a wide open space.

He made the whistle just for me. To keep close in the arena.

I nod, unable to speak. My fingers tighten around the little shape in my hand. It's not beautiful. It's not polished. But I think I love it more than anything I've ever owned.

I'm just as quiet as he is, but I try to express my thankfulness with a smile. He returns it, smaller this time, a little sad.

The knock comes again. The Peacekeeper is back, and it's time.

Tap glances at the door, then back at me. His eyes settle on mine like he wants to make sure I remember him. Like he's giving me something even bigger than the whistle and trusting I'll carry it with me.

I don't want to say goodbye. I don't want him to go. I've only known him this long and now I've got one more thing to miss.

But I know he has to.

I step forward and pull him into a quick, tight hug. He's surprised— his hands hesitate for a second before they come around me, one of them patting my back once, like he's not used to this but he's trying. I feel his head tuck into my shoulder. He's so small.

"Thank you, Tap," I whisper, even though I know he won't hear it. I hope he feels it anyway.

He pulls back, nods once more, and walks to the door.

Before he disappears, he turns and taps his finger against the back of his hand again.

A reminder. Then he's gone.

I look down at the whistle in my hand and bring it to my lips, blowing gently. It makes a soft, clear note. Nothing fancy. Just one true sound.

Then the Peacekeepers march back in and I am escorted to the train station. Goodbyes are over. It's time for the Hunger Games.

Via Chatter

Imagine you're GAY in a district thats HOMOPHOBIC and then your girlfriend is REAPED and you VOLUNTEER FOR HER and the Capitol escort calls you guys BEST FRIENDS and your brother figure already has DEPRESSION and your father figure has lost THREE DAUGHTERS ALREADY and your mentor is your OLD UNCLE FIGURE who DATED YOUR GREAT AUNT and a deaf boy whittled you a WHISTLE to take into the arena where you FIGHT people to the DEATH

President Snow hearing "Claribel Rose BAIRD":

So gagged he had to cancel the goodbyes