We Could Make It

1. The Reaping.

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prim's warmth but finding only the rough canvas of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she did. This is the day of the reaping.

I see my mother and sister sleeping, Prim's ugly cat laying at her feet. Prim's face is as lovely as the primrose for which she was named after. My mother looks much younger in her sleep. She was stunning once. Or that's what they tell me.

I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my hunting boots. I put on pants, a shirt, tuck my long dark braid into a hat, and grab my forage bag.

On the table, under a wooden bowl to protect it from hungry rats and cats, sits goat cheese wrapped in basil leaves—Prim's gift to us on reaping day. I put the cheese in my pocket and slip outside.

Our part of District 12, the Seam, is usually crawling with coal miners heading to work. But today, the streets are empty. Everyone has their shutters closed. The reaping isn't until two. Might as well sleep in if you can.

Our house is almost at the edge of the Seam. I only have to pass a few gates to reach the Meadow. The chain-link fence separating the district and the woods is supposed to be electrified twenty-four hours a day to keep the predators out and, in theory, us in. But since we're lucky to get two or three hours of electricity in the evenings, it's usually not on. Even so, I always listen carefully for the hum that means the fence is on. It's silent as a stone. I slip under the fence and head for the woods.

I retrieve my bow and sheath from a hollow log. My father is the one who taught me how to hunt. That is until he died in a mine explosion 5 years ago. I still wake up screaming for him to run.

Trespassing in the woods is illegal, and poaching carries the severest of penalties, but more people would risk it if they had weapons. My bow is a rarity, crafted by my father's gentle hands along with a few others hidden in the woods.

When I was a kid, I scared my mother to death, the things I would say about the people who rule Panem and the Capitol. I learned to hold my tongue to avoid getting us into trouble. Prim might begin to repeat my words, and that is the last thing I want.

In the woods waits the only person I feel like I can be myself with. Gale. I feel my muscles start to relax and my pace quickening as I climb the hills to our place, a rock ledge overlooking the valley. Thick berry bushes protect that spot from unwanted eyes. The sight of him waiting there brings a smile to my face. Gale says I never smile except in the woods. When I'm with him, I think.

"Hey, Catnip," says Gale. Catnip is the nickname he gave me. 'Cause, when I told him my name was Katniss, I said it barely above a whisper, and he thought I said Catnip. It really stuck after this crazy lynx started following me around the woods. I eventually killed it because it scared off the game.

"Look what I shot." He holds up a loaf of bread with an arrow stuck in it.

"Yeah, bread's probably the only thing you're able to actually shoot," I laugh, take the bakery bread, pull the arrow out, and bring it up to my nose. Gale isn't as good with a bow as I am, but he's not bad.

"Very funny," he says sarcastically.

"How much did it cost?"

"A squirrel. I think the baker was feeling generous this morning," says Gale. "He even wished me luck."

"Prim left us some cheese," I say.

His expression brightens. "Thank you, Prim. Now we'll have a real feast." He falls into a Capitol accent and mimics Effie Trinket. "I almost forgot! Happy Hunger Games!" He plucks a few blackberries. "And may the odds-" He tosses a berry in a high arc toward me.