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Calpurnia Flint had been terribly unlucky all her life, so it really was no surprise to anyone when she was reaped.
Don't get her wrong, she had gone through many understandable things that day: fear, sadness, anxiety, anger, depression, hopelessness. But she never did feel very surprised. She'd known all along this would happen, ever since last spring when she'd been caught stealing from the bakery, when the Head Peacekeeper had been the one to snatch her arm and find her red-handed.
She was only sixteen then—her birthday had come and gone since—but she didn't feel much older now, anyway. If age had been determined by experience, Calpurnia always thought she'd be perpetually eleven years old. Or perhaps six.
It was a measly piece of bread; hardly could be qualified as a loaf, really. More like a slice or two. Just enough for Calpurnia to make it through the night—Beryl had been sick in bed for a few days by then, and Calpurnia hadn't eaten the entire time. Beryl wanted to give her money to get bread the right way—the way that wouldn't get Calpurnia in trouble—but in Twelve, nobody had any money they could just give away like that. Especially not Beryl.
So Calpurnia turned to something she always knew was wrong: Thieving. Stealing, lying, running from the Peacekeepers. She should have known she wouldn't make it far—she never was any good at running.
The Head Peacekeeper (who had always had it out for Calpurnia, anyway) had been the one patrolling the decrepit streets of Twelve on the night Calpurnia decided to make her burglar debut. He'd heard Calpurnia's quick footsteps, found her around the corner leading back to the bar with a portion of bread tucked under her shirt.
If she hadn't been so good at storytelling, she would have been thrown in jail on the spot. But, somehow, by the grace of some god, the man with the gun (Calpurnia never cared to learn his name; only that he had a weapon and was not much afraid to use it) believed that Calpurnia was merely borrowing the bread to study its recipe in detail. She had thought, at the time, that he was a stupid man for believing her, but Calpurnia was good at stories. Her wit had saved her again.
As it turned out, of course, Calpurnia was the fool for thinking she'd been slick. She was often the fool, which was why she had learned to be unsurprised when the fates drew cards that did not line up in her favor.
The ride to the Capitol was dark, rancid, and soul-crushing, but at least Lysander provided a little light. He was known around Twelve for talking things that often never made much sense to anyone—that was probably why he'd been reaped, since the townsfolk didn't have much care for him. But he had been friends with Calpurnia's brother, so even if she didn't understand what all he was saying, she knew he was kind-hearted and resilient, like Albany Flint had been.
Calpurnia told ten stories over the course of the two-day train ride from Twelve to the Capitol, at the behest of Lysander. Whenever his eyes grew heavy and Calpurnia saw his head tip down toward his chest, and she prayed he was finally falling asleep—he needed sleep, and he needed it bad—he would jerk back awake at the last second, nudging Calpurnia's shoulder for a tale to keep the night terrors away.
