The Hunger Games: Retold

Chapter 1

I roll over and try to get comfortable, urge myself to sleep at least a little on this harrowing night. It's no use, I need to be outside. Quietly, I slip on shoes and a jacket and creep downstairs to the kitchen at the back of our two story home. Our family quarters, like most of the merchants in District 12, are above our shop in the nicer part of town. I step lightly over the creaky floorboard just at the foot of the stairs and into the warmth of the kitchen. Feeling guilty about wanting to go outside instead of getting an early start on the day's work, I think about smuggling a roll out with me. The stale leftovers from two days ago shouldn't be missed, but I shudder to think of my mother's cutting remarks should she find out. It's bad enough we're going to miss a half-day's custom because of the Reaping, she'd say.

Just as I'm about to head across the stone floor toward the door, I hear a knock outside. I'm surprised to see my father rise from the table in the corner of the room. He'd been so still I hadn't noticed him. Not wanting to disturb him, I push back into the doorway out of sight and hear his low voice greet the visitor. Curious who could be at our back door at this hour, I strain to listen but can't place the voice, though it's familiar. Less familiar is my father's choking reply. His throat sounds tight, as though he were trying to cover for something.

"No, no. Nonsense," he replies to the stranger. "Take this loaf instead. It's warm and full of good things. And may the odds...I wish you luck today, son."

"Thank you, sir. And to yours as well." Now I know the voice. A tall boy from the Seam, he often comes to trade with my father. He'll bring squirrels he's hunted in the woods and trade for a few rolls or a stale loaf. I'm always amazed when my father brings them to be fried. How can the boy dare to go outside the fence? With weapons, no less? Though, if my family would starve without that law-breaking, I hope I would be able to step up as bravely as he has. And a bit of squirrel now and again is a nice change. Though his aren't usually as skillfully shot as hers. My father always laughs, "Right through the eye! How does she do it?"

I know why my father is up early. I step into the kitchen and put a kettle on to boil. He looks at me steadily, but I can see the anxiety in his eyes. Bringing two cups of tea to the table, I sit across from him but pat his shoulder affectionately as I put his cup down. He reaches up to clasp my hand as I come around the table, and suddenly his eyes fill with tears. My eldest brother, Jasper, is finally too old for the Reaping and is safe today. But Uri, my mother's favorite, and I will both have our names in the ball. Mine five times this year, and Uri's seven. My father hates himself at this time every year, unable to forgive the wave of relief when another family's son's name is called. My mother doesn't seem to have the same misgivings, making comments like, "Well, they have more mouths than they can feed anyway." I don't know which response is more honest.

Today, I drink my tea with my father and we silently share our vigil in the early morning. I know my chances of having my name drawn are slim, compared to many of the boys who live in the Seam. They are forced to enter their names multiple times each year in exchange for extra rations of grain and oil for their starving families. The boy who was at the door this morning must have his name in the ball at least 40 times this year. I think about how many times she must have been entered this year. I'm certain she would take the tesserae herself, not letting her sister add her name extra times, even though this is her first year being eligible. That must be 20 times a slip of paper bears the name Katniss Everdeen. My heart skips a little at the thought, but I comfort myself that there are thousands of slips of paper in the ball. She just needs to make it through two more Reapings after this one and she will be safe. But safe to do what? To live a life of poverty in the Seam? To work endless days underground in the black mines where a simple spark could end the life of everyone down there? I think of what I have to offer her. As the youngest son of a baker, my lot is not much better than hers. But I could give her a house, we could open a business together and raise a family in town, away from the dirt and misery and confinement of the Seam. I could give her a flying pig as well, really. It's equally likely since I have never once worked up the courage to even talk to her. Really, I've only interacted with her the once and I'm not even sure she knows who I am. I made such a stupid mess of that. No wonder she never even acknowledged it.