d caring。 Possibly because they know me from the Hob； or knew my father； or have encountered Prim； who no one can help loving。 So instead of acknowledging applause； I stand there unmoving while they take part in the boldest form of dissent they can manage。 Silence。 Which says we do not agree。 We do not condone。 All of this is wrong。
Then something unexpected happens。 At least； I donˇt expect it because I donˇt think of District 12 as a place that cares about me。 But a shift has occurred since I stepped up to take Primˇs place； and now it seems I have bee someone precious。 At first one； then another； then almost every member of the crowd touches the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out to me。 It is an old and rarely used
gesture of our district； occasionally seen at funerals。 It means thanks； it means admiration； it means good…bye to someone you love。
Now I am truly in danger of crying； but fortunately Haymitch chooses this time to e staggering across the stage to congratulate me。 ¨Look at her。 Look at this one！〃 he hollers； throwing an arm around my shoulders。 Heˇs surprisingly strong for such a wreck。 ¨I like her！〃 His breath reeks of liquor and itˇs been a long time since heˇs bathed。 ¨Lots of 。 。 。 ¨ He canˇt think of the word for a while。 ¨Spunk！〃 he says triumphantly。 ¨More than you！〃 he releases me and starts for the front of 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？ Iˇll never know because just as heˇs opening his mouth to continue； Haymitch plummets off the stage and knocks himself unconscious。
Heˇs disgusting； but Iˇm grateful。 With every camera gleefully trained on him； I have just enough time to release the small； choked sound in my throat and pose myself。 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 for something 。 。 。 the idea of us leaving the district 。 。 。 making our way in the woods 。 。 。 but I know I was right about not running off。 Because who else would have volunteered for Prim？
Haymitch is whisked away on a stretcher； and Effie 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 e！ Itˇs 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 boysˇ names and grabs the first slip she encounters。 She zips back to the podium； and I donˇt even have time to wish for Galeˇs safety when sheˇs reading the name。 ¨Peeta Mellark。〃
Peeta Mellark！
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 favor today。 I watch him as he makes his way toward the stage。 Medium height； stocky build； ashy blond hair that falls in waves over his forehead。 The shock of the moment is registering on his face； you can see his struggle to remain emotionless； but his blue eyes show the alarm Iˇve seen so often in prey。 Yet he climbs steadily onto the stage and takes his place。
Effie Trinket asks for volunteers； but no one steps forward。 He has two older brothers； I know； Iˇve seen them in the bakery； but one is probably too old now to volunteer and the other wonˇt。 This is standard。 Family devotion only goes so far for most people on reaping day。 What I did was the radical thing。
The mayor begins to read the long； dull Treaty of Treason as he does every year at this point itˇs required but Iˇm not listening to a word。
Why him？ I think。 Then I try to convince myself it doesnˇt matter。 Peeta Mellark and I are not friends。 Not even neighbors。 We donˇt speak。 Our only real interaction happened years ago。 Heˇs probably forgotten it。 But I havenˇt and I know I never will。 。 。 。
It was during the worst time。 My father had been killed in the mine accident three months earlier in the bitterest January anyone could remember。 The numbness of his loss had passed； and the pain would hit me out of nowhere； doubling me over； racking my body with sobs。 Where are you？ I would cry out in my mind。 Where have you gone？ Of course； there was never any answer。
The district had given us a small amount of money as pensation for his death； enough to cover one month of grieving at which time my mother would be expected to get a job。 Only she didnˇt。 She didnˇt do anything but sit propped up in a chair or； more often； huddled under the blankets on her bed； eyes fixed on some point in the distance。 Once in a while； sheˇd stir； get up as if moved by some urgent purpose； only to then collapse back into stillness。 No amount of pleading from Prim seemed to affect her。
I was terrified。 I suppose now that my mother was locked in some dark world of sadness； but at the time； all I knew was that I had lost not only a father； but a mother as well。 At eleven years old； with Prim just seven； I took over as head of the family。 There was no choice。 I bought our food at the market and cooked it as best I could and tried to keep Prim and myself looking presentable。 Because if it had bee known that my mother could no longer care for us； the district would have taken us away from her and placed us in the munity home。 Iˇd grown up seeing those home kids at school。 The sadness； the marks of angry hands on their faces； the hopelessness
that curled their shoulders forward。 I could never let that happen to Prim。 Sweet； tiny Prim who cried when I cried before she even knew the reason； who brushed and plaited my motherˇs hair before we left for school； who still polished my fatherˇs shaving mirror each night because heˇd hated the layer of coal dust that settled on everything in the Seam。 The munity 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。 Thereˇs no other way to put it。 I kept telling myself if I could only hold out until May； just May 8th； I would turn twelve and be able to sign up for the tesserae and get that precious grain and oil to feed us。 Only there were still several weeks to go。 We could well be dead by then。
Starvationˇs not an unmon fate in District 12。 Who hasnˇt seen the victims？ Older people who canˇt work。 Children from a family with too many to feed。 Those injured in the mines。 Straggling through the streets。 And one day； you e upon them sitting motionless against a wall or lying in the Meadow； you hear the wails from a house； and the Peacekeepers are called in to retrieve the body。 Starvation is never the cause of death officially。 Itˇs always the flu； or exposure； or pneumonia。 But that fools no one。
On the afternoon of my encounter with Peeta Mellark； the rain was falling in relentless icy sheets。 I had been in town； trying to trade some threadbare old baby clothes of Primˇs in the public market； but there were no takers。 Although I had been to the Hob on several occasions with my father； I was too frightened to venture into that rough； gritty place alone。 The rain had soaked through my fatherˇs hunting jacket； leaving me chilled to the bone。 For three days； weˇd had nothing but boiled water with some old dried mint leaves Iˇd found in the back of a cupboard。 By the time the market closed； I was shaking so hard I dropped my bundle of baby clothes in a mud puddle。 I didnˇt pick it up for fear I would keel over and be unable to regain my feet。 Besides； no one wanted those clothes。
I couldnˇt go home。 Because at home was my mother with her dead eyes and my little sister； with her hollow cheeks and cracked lips。 I couldnˇt walk into that room with the smoky fire from the damp branches I had scavenged at the edge of the woods after the coal had run out； my bands empty of any hope。
I found myself stumbling along a muddy lane behind the shops that serve the wealthiest townspeople。 The merchants live above their businesses； so I was essentially in their backyards。 I remember the outlines of garden beds not yet planted for the spring；