In the ruins of a place known as North America lies the nation of Panem, a shining Capitol surrounded by twelve outlying districts. The Capitol is harsh and cruel and keeps the districts in line by sending two tributes between the ages of twelve and...
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The moment the anthem ends, we are taken into custody. A group of peacekeepers marches us through the front door of the Justice Building with a firm hand on my back guiding me. My knees buckle under the pressure of their cold grip, pushing me into the building; I'm sure tributes have fled in the past. I've never seen this happen though, and besides where would they go? Where would I go?
Once inside, I'm conducted to a room and left alone. It's the richest place I've ever been in, with thick, deep carpets, and a strange silky material covering the couch and chairs. Sitting down on the couch, I can't help but run my hand over the fabric repeatedly. Oddly calming me, even if for a moment.
This is the time allotted for the tributes to say goodbye to their loved ones. I cannot afford to get upset, but I already am. My cheeks wet with streams of tears, I will be leaving this room with puffy red eyes and a running nose. What does it matter if I'm deemed weak? I'm dead anyway. The cameras at the train station will mock me for being feeble. I've already failed. I can't control myself the way Cassia could. She never cried, but here I am with oceans of tears. And Bentley? He'll be alone. No family left. The thought sent me into a spiral of panic. My chest tightening, the lump in my throat strangling me, making it impossible to breathe. The room starts to spin, making it feel like my whole body was on fire. Waves of nausea hit me in violent surges. Hands clutching the couch and eyes closed willing this nightmare to go away. This isn't real. This isn't real. This isn't real!
The sound of a door closing makes me jump and shut my eyes tighter. Feeling a dip in the couch and strong arms pulling me close, someone saves me from this horror.
"Willow," he says, "There isn't much time, open your eyes."
Shaking my head, opening my eyes, I see Bentley. His eyes waver and his hand shakes ever so slightly in his lap.
"Listen," he says, "getting a knife should be easy but you need to get your hands on a bow. That will be your best chance." He said the exact same thing to my sister, but she never made it back.
"What if they don't even have any weapons?" I ask, referring to the year that there were only the ruins of buildings and bricks to smash in the heads of other tributes.
"Then get any resource you can," He says, cupping my face to look me in the eyes. "Willow, you never miss your target with a bow or a knife. You have a good chance."
An impending doom set in. Despite my abilities, I will have no chance against the competition. In wealthier districts, where children who have never experienced starvation sleep with full stomachs, where they have trained their entire lives to vie for this crown, where winning is a huge honor and not a death wish, they will be two to three times my size and know hundreds of ways to kill. Unlike me, these kids do not fear killing.
