Once I’m on the stage, I stare at my feet. The wood beneath me is splintered and sun-warmed. There’s a crack running between two boards. I focus on it like it’s the only solid thing left in the world. What just happened? The crowd is a blur beyond the edge of the platform. Faces melt together. Sound comes in waves — distant crying, someone shouting, the low murmur of hundreds of voices trying to understand what they just saw. I try to breathe. But the air won’t go in right. It catches in my throat, sharp and wrong, and I swallow hard, fighting the urge to cough. I am going into the Hunger Games. The words don’t feel real. They float somewhere above me, disconnected. I made it. I was safe. I was done. And now— Now I’m standing under the hot July sun in a green dress my mother left me, about to be shipped to an arena where only one person comes home. Woah. My hands tremble at my sides. I clench them into fists so no one sees. “I’m so sorry for that interruption, folks,” Celestine says smoothly, snapping me out of the fog in my head. Her smile never wavers. “Now we will be selecting a male tribute.” Like nothing just happened. Like a girl didn’t collapse on this very stage. She dips her manicured hand into the second glass bowl and stirs the slips. I stand there, heart still pounding, hands trembling at my sides. “The male tribute for the 71st Hunger Games in District 10 is… Logan Barrett.” You have got to be kidding me. Not only am I being sent into the Hunger Games, I have to go with Logan Barrett. If you don’t know who Logan is, I envy you. He’s the mayor’s son. Which means he thinks the rules bend for him. He walks through District 10 like he owns it — like the rest of us are just background noise. He’s loud, arrogant, and allergic to basic human decency. And now he’s my district partner. I watch him make his way through the crowd. He doesn’t look scared. Not really. There’s a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, like this is some kind of performance. Fake confidence drips off him like sweat in the July heat. He climbs the steps and stands beside me, close enough that I can smell expensive soap — something imported, no doubt. Celestine beams at us. “Shake hands.” I turn toward him stiffly. Logan extends his hand. And I see it. He deliberately runs his tongue over his palm before holding it out to me. For a second, I just stare at him. His smirk widens. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, I grab his wrist instead of his hand and give it one firm shake. If I’m going to the arena with him, I’m not letting him think I’m weak. Not for a second.
