“I love your dress, Willow,” Harper says as we step out the front door. The warm July breeze rolls over us as we walk down the dirt roads of District 10. The air smells like dust and livestock. Cows low in the distance. A rooster crows somewhere behind a fence. Goats bleat from a nearby pen. It sounds like any other summer afternoon. “Thank you,” I say. “I like yours too.” Harper’s wearing a cream-colored dress that falls just above her knees, brown boots scuffed at the toes, and her fiery red hair pulled into a high ponytail. She walks like she owns the road. After a few minutes of nervous, meaningless chatter, we reach Town Hall. A crowd has already gathered, divided into neat sections by age. Ivy’s hand slips into mine. We walk to the long table where the Peacekeepers sit. “Name?” one of them asks without looking up. “Willow Hayes,” I reply, holding out my hand so he can pr13k my finger and mark me in. The sting barely registers. A few minutes later, Ivy, Harper, and I stand shoulder to shoulder in the sixteen-to-eighteen section, waiting. The platform creaks. Then she appears. “Hello, everyone, and welcome to the 71st Hunger Games reaping in District 10,” Celestine Marrow announces, her voice smooth and rehearsed. “We will be selecting the female tribute first.” Celestine Marrow — District 10’s escort and chaperone — looks like she was carved from marble. Platinum hair. Pale skin. A perfectly pressed white suit that doesn’t have a speck of dust on it, even here. She smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes. She dips her hand into the large glass bowl and swirls the slips around slowly. I squeeze Ivy’s hand tighter. This decides everything. I feel the July heat pressing against my skin. I smell the dry grass and animals. I hear someone coughing two rows behind me. I breathe in. Out. Celestine unfolds the slip. “The female tribute for District 10 is… Sage Emberpine.” I blink. Sage Emberpine. Not me. My name wasn’t called. The fear — the tightness in my chest — loosens all at once. It’s over. I made it. I’m done. I turn to Harper, almost laughing in relief. Sage steps forward from the crowd. And she’s smiling. Not nervous. Not pale. Not shaking. Smiling. Something isn’t right. She walks calmly to the stage. Too calmly. Then it happens fast. A small glass bottle flashes in her hand. A sharp gasp ripples through the crowd. Sage sways. And then she collapses. Peacekeepers rush forward. People scream. Someone behind me starts crying. Sage is lifted quickly and carried backstage. The square erupts into chaos. Celestine’s voice cuts through it like a blade. “In the event of noncompliance, another eligible tribute will be selected.” My blood turns to ice. Another tribute. It isn’t over. Ivy’s grip tightens painfully around my fingers. I look down at her. Her face is drained of color. “No,” she whispers. Celestine reaches back into the bowl. The slips shuffle. The wind goes still. “Now,” she says smoothly, “the new female tribute for District 10 is… Willow Hayes.” The world goes silent. All I can hear is the ringing in my ears — and Ivy’s sob breaking beside me. My fingers go numb. Harper tries to grab my hand, but I step forward before she can. My feet move on their own, carrying me through the parted crowd. I don’t cry. I don’t scream. I just walk.
