I roll over in the narrow bed I share with my younger sister, the thin mattress dipping under both our weights. The room is still dark, the air cold enough to sting my nose. Today is the reaping for the 71st Hunger Games, my last year in that glass bowl. Ever. I sit up slowly, careful not to wake Ivy. One of her hands is curled in the blanket like she’s afraid it might disappear. A faded blue ribbon is still braided into her hair from yesterday. She always forgets to take them out. I lean my head against the wooden headboard of our old bed and stare at the ceiling. Even though this is my final year eligible, it isn’t Ivy’s. She’s only sixteen. Her name will stay in that bowl for two more years after mine is finally gone. The thought makes my stomach twist. If Ivy ever got sent into the Games, I don’t know what I would do. She still cries when one of the hens stops laying. She names every lamb born in the spring. Last week she scolded Papa for swatting a mosquito because, “It didn’t mean to.” There’s no world where she survives an arena. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to force the thought away. It’s just another reaping. Just another year. Quietly, I slip out of bed and ease the door open. The hinges groan, and I freeze, but Ivy doesn’t stir. I step outside into the thin orange light of the early morning and breathe in the cold morning air. It tastes like damp earth and hay. My feet carry me to the barn without thinking. I slip inside and close the door behind me. Daisy lifts her head from the straw, her ears twitching. “Hey, girl,” I whisper, crouching beside her and wrapping my arms around her warm wool. She lets out a soft bleat and nudges my shoulder. I press my forehead into her fur. “Today’s my last reaping,” I murmur. Saying it out loud makes it feel heavier. “After this, my name won’t be in that bowl anymore.” If I make it through today. I swallow. “Once I turn nineteen in August, I’ll be co–barn manager with Papa. No more tesserae. No more extra slips with my name on them.” I let out a shaky breath. “Just early mornings and stubborn sheep.” Daisy flicks her tail, unimpressed. We walk out into the meadow behind the barn, wildflowers brushing against my ankles. The sky is beginning to turn pink and gold, the sun stretching over the hills like it doesn’t care what day it is. I sit in the grass and stare at the horizon. “I hope I don’t get reaped,” I whisper. Not lightly. Not joking. “I don’t think I’d survive the bloodbath.” The word hangs in the quiet morning air. If I do get chosen, I’ll never see another sunrise like this. Never feel Daisy’s wool under my fingers. Never hear Ivy laughing when she trips over her own boots. “You’re not going to get reaped.” I jump and turn to see Ivy standing a few feet away, barefoot in the grass, her braid messy from sleep. “You haven’t gotten picked in the last six years,” she says, walking toward me. “This year won’t be any different.” I give her a small smile, even though my chest still feels tight. “What are you doing up?” “I woke up and you weren’t in bed,” she says softly. “So I came looking.” She sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. The sun climbs higher. And for a moment, I pretend this is just another morning.
