When we arrive at the apartments on the upper floors of the Training Center, Mara and Celestine show Logan and me to our rooms. The hallway is long and bright, the floors polished so perfectly I can see my reflection in them. Everything smells faintly like something sweet and artificial, the kind of scent that doesn’t exist in District 10. Celestine gestures dramatically toward two doors. “These will be your rooms,” she says brightly. Logan barely waits before pushing his door open and disappearing inside. I step into mine more slowly. The door clicks shut behind me, and for a moment I just stand there. The room is enormous. There’s sleek, modern furniture arranged neatly around the space. A huge bed sits against one wall, covered in thick blankets and pillows. The windows stretch from floor to ceiling, showing the glowing skyline of the Capitol far below. I’ve never seen anything like it. It feels too big. Too perfect. Like I don’t belong here. I walk toward the bed slowly. That’s when I see it. Folded neatly on top of the covers is my reaping dress. The soft green fabric is smoothed flat like someone carefully placed it there. My chest tightens. I pick it up slowly, running my fingers along the familiar material. Then I notice something strange. Inside the collar—where the tag usually is—there’s a word embroidered in small, careful stitching. I lift the dress closer to my face, squinting at the letters. COVEY Covey? What does that mean? I stare at it for a long moment, my mind racing, trying to remember if I’ve ever heard the word before. Nothing comes. Just another strange Capitol mystery. I sigh and let the dress fall from my hands. It lands softly on the floor beside the bed. I quickly change into my sleeping clothes, not wanting to think about it anymore. Not wanting to think about anything. The room suddenly feels too quiet. Too empty. I climb into the massive bed, pulling the blankets around me. For a while, I stare out the huge window at the glowing Capitol skyline. Somewhere out there, people are still celebrating the parade. Still cheering. Still excited to watch us die. My chest tightens, and before I can stop it, the tears start falling. I bury my face into the pillow and cry until my head aches and my eyes burn. Eventually, exhaustion takes over. (pt 1)
(pt 2) “Good morning, Willow,” Celestine says as I walk into the dining room of the apartment. “Morning,” I reply, sitting down across from Mara. Mara and Celestine sit side by side at the long table. Logan’s stylist and mine sit at the ends, chatting quietly with each other. Logan is still in his room, at least, I assume he is. “We have to wait until Logan wakes up to eat,” Mara says with a sigh. Of course we do. Right on cue, a voice echoes from the hallway. “Don’t worry, the great Logan is here.” I turn around and see him stepping into the dining room, arms spread wide like he’s entering a stage. He gives a small dramatic bow. I roll my eyes and turn back toward the table. Finally, we start eating. The moment I look down at my plate, I freeze. Eggs. Ham. Bacon. Sausages. Fresh fruit. Salmon. Croissants. My plate alone has more food on it than I’ve probably eaten in a single meal in my entire life. Back in District 10 we usually had eggs. Sometimes bread if we were lucky. Honestly, that was pretty good considering how poor we were. But this? This is ridiculous. The fruit alone looks like it was polished. For a moment I just stare at it, unsure where to even start. Then I glance beside me. Logan is staring at his plate too. Even he looks a little stunned. I guess even the son of someone “important” in District 10 hasn’t seen a breakfast like this before. I stand side by side with all the other tributes as we listen to someone from the Capitol go over the safety rules for training. We’re in a huge room inside the Training Center. The ceiling stretches high above us, and different stations are scattered across the floor—weapon stations, climbing walls, knots, camouflage, survival skills. Everything we might need to kill someone. Or keep ourselves from being killed. A tall Capitol woman stands in front of us, her bright purple hair piled into some complicated hairstyle that looks like it might collapse at any moment. “Welcome, tributes,” she says cheerfully. “Before training begins, we must go over a few important safety rules.” Her voice echoes across the room as all twenty-four of us stand in a long line. “While you are allowed to practice with weapons, you may not use them against another tribute during training.” I glance down the line. Some tributes look bored. Some look terrified. Others—mostly the ones from the career districts—look excited. “Violating these rules,” the woman continues, “will result in immediate removal from the Training Center.” Yeah right. Like they’d really punish anyone important. I shift slightly on my feet, scanning the room. Every single one of these people will eventually try to kill me. Or I’ll have to kill them. The thought makes my stomach twist. “Training will last several days,” the woman says. “Use this time wisely to develop your skills.” Then she claps her hands brightly. “Let the training begin!” Immediately the room explodes into motion. Tributes scatter toward different stations. Logan cracks his knuckles beside me. “Well,” he says with a grin, “this should be fun.” I glance at him. “For you maybe.” Then I turn and start walking toward the survival stations. Because if I’m going to survive this arena, I’ll need more than confidence.
