Finnick is chosen as the male tribute for District 4 in the annual Hunger Games. As he makes his way to the stage, the reaction from the crowd is extreme - all the girls in his year start crying loudly while the boys shout angrily. Finnick himself feels disappointed rather than terrified at being chosen, seeing it as an inevitable possibility each year. He is well aware that with his good looks and charm, he will need to use everything in his power to survive the brutal games.

1. Part One: Fish Out of Water
Chapter One
I may have been born a creature of the land, but my heart belongs to the sea. In that first,
shocking instant, when my head breaks the surface of the cool water and my entire body is
suddenly submersed in this weightless world, I feel like I could live here, among the fish and eels
and coral, and just leave my real life behind. And for a few minutes I can, but then my lungs
betray me and force me back to that place of harsh sunlight, and back-breaking labor, and the
Hunger Games.
My father tells my sister Natare and I every night, as we lay down on the scrubbed wooden deck
of our little fishing ship staring at the stars that we're lucky to have been born in District 4. Our
district is in charge of everything to do with the sea, which basically means we're all fishermen.
"You think knotting lines and hauling nets is hard work?" father says. "Imagine mining for coal
hundreds of feet underground, or dragging a plow across a twenty mile-long field in the mid-day
heat. What we have, my children, is paradise, or as near as someone from the districts can get."
And for the most part, he's right. School is technically compulsory, but attendance is only
enforced when kids, like Natare and I, are on land. When we're out on father's fishing boat –
which is most of the time – he is our teacher, the sea our classroom. Natare and I dangle our feet
off the edges of the dinghy, making elaborately knotted rope nets with our dexterous fingers,
while father steers us to our destination. When we reach the fishing grounds it is hard work –
casting the nets and baiting the lures – but once all the prep is done, we can swim and play until
the sun sinks into the water and the moon becomes our lantern in the sky.
But today my little family and I aren't on our fishing boat, trawling the waters for tonight's dinner
and, ultimately, a decent-sized haul to sell at the market, so we can keep our boat in good repair
and continue our relatively carefree lifestyle. We're ashore, in the small, thatched-roof cottage
my mother so painstakingly decorated before she died of a plague that cut a swath through our
section of the district two years ago.
Natare is standing in front of the vanity – a simple wooden table attached to a large, relatively
flat shell that has been polished until you can see yourself in its shiny surface. Father is helping
her twine her long bronze hair into dozens of braids, which is our traditional way of doing a girl's
hair for formal events. This is something that mother used to help Natare with, and we can all
feel her absence more keenly on a day like today.
"Brush your hair," father snaps at me. "The Capitol is watching us on Reaping Day. We have an
image to maintain, especially you."
Especially me. Because Natare is only nine years old, whereas I'm fourteen. And that means that
when Pompey Birch, the official District 4 spokesman for the yearly Hunger Games, sticks his
hand in that big plastic ball and pulls out a slip of paper, my name could be on it. Natare is safe a
few years more, but I'm at the mercy of fate.

2. "Girls like the tousled look," I say, running my fingers through my thick hair. Girls like a lot of
things about me: my hair, my face, my body, and my eyes. Oh, definitely the eyes. Whenever I
actually go to class, I'm surrounded by flocks of girls whispering about my "dreamy" sea-green
eyes, as if I can't hear them when they're working themselves into a near frenzy.
"You aren't trying to impress the girls," father reminds me. "If you're chosen, it's the Capitol
you'll have to impress."
I come up behind Natare, whose eyes are squinted close as she manipulates her hair, and stare at
my reflection in the polished shell mirror. Somehow, I don't think the people in Capitol will
mind my untidy bronze locks. Father forgets – or perhaps he doesn't notice – that it isn't only the
girls who are entranced by my looks. Ever since I can remember, women of all ages have been
drawn to me like sharks to blood. I don't encourage them, they just can't seem to help themselves.
And the state of my hair has never mattered one bit to them.
"Finnick doesn't need to brush his hair to impress those snobs in Capitol," Natare opines, gazing
up at me with sea-green eyes that are identical to mine. "If his stunning good looks don't have
them falling over themselves, his charming wit is sure to do the trick."
"Ha ha," I say, nudging my little sister with my hip. She sticks her tongue out at me, and then
resumes her braiding. Not that Natare is wrong – people have a convenient tendency to eat up my
words as if they're the most brilliant thing that they have ever heard. I like to think that it's
because I'm a scintillating conversationalist, but Natare is always quick to point out that people
are just too busy being awestruck by my physical appearance to really take in a word that I say.
And I would be lying if I said I didn't take advantage of it now and again, but on the whole my
family keeps me grounded.
We dress in silence. Natare retreats to the other room of our two-room cottage, and emerges in a
simple turquoise frock that compliments her eyes. Father and I are dressed almost identically,
because I'm wearing his old clothes. I'm remarkably tall for my age, and the lean muscles I've
built up on the fishing boat almost manage to fill out the white shirt and dark green pants.
As he has every year since I hit the age that I would be eligible to be a tribute in the Hunger
Games, father puts his hands on my shoulders and looks me straight in the eyes. "Finnick," he
says, deathly serious. "This year might be your year."
"I know," I reply. This little ritual of ours is more to calm down father than me, because he
worries more about me than I do. Natare once commented that I act like a leaf in a stream, aware
of my surroundings but content to float wherever the water takes me. She isn't wrong, but I
would have to be either stupid or crazy not to fear the Hunger Games at least a little bit.
"And what do you do if you're chosen?" father presses.
"I do whatever I have to," I say. "Nothing is more important than coming home."
"How do you do that?"

3. "I use what I know. Ropes, knots, tridents, spears – whatever I have, whatever I can make."
"And the children, the other tributes," father says, and I can see the naked fear in his eyes now.
"What are they?"
"They're sharks," I say.
"What do we do with sharks?"
"We kill them."
Father releases me, apparently satisfied with my response. I'm not particularly vicious, as father
well knows, and so he tries to mentally prepare me for the possibility that I might be forced into
a gladiatorial death match with twenty-three other children. Because I've never had another
person's life in my hands before, I have no way to gauge how effective his methods are.
We make our way to the main square, a huge cobblestone expanse set against the backdrop of the
massive Justice Hall. Because District 4 is built along the coastline, the docks are full with the
ships of fishermen who have brought their families by sea to attend the Reaping Day ceremony.
Our village is only half an hour's walk from the main square, so we leave our boat tethered at the
local pier and go on foot.
I am immediately ushered away from my father, and Natare joins him when she is confirmed to
be under the Reaping age. They disappear into the throng of people quickly filling up the square,
but not before I spot Natare waving at me. I wave back, but one of the white-clad Peacekeepers
grabs my shoulder and I don't see if Natare notices me.
"Name?"
"Finnick Odair," I say, glancing down at the clipboard the armored man carries. His pen floats
down the list, and then checks off my name under the section labeled "Fourteen".
"Follow the signs," the Peacekeeper grunts, already on to the next kid in line – a trembling
twelve-year old with tears streaming down her face. I hang back, and when the girl is waved on
by the Peacekeeper, I beckon to her. She hesitates, glances at the cordoned off area with the
"Twelve" sign, then shuffles over to me.
"What's your name?" I ask her.
I'm thankful for my good looks right now, because something about a handsome face makes
people trust you. The little girl's tears slow, and then disappear, as she gapes up at me. Then she
grins toothily and says, "Mara Kell."
"Pleased to meet you, Mara Kell," I say, offering her my hand. She grasps it in both of hers and
gives it a big shake. "Don't worry," I tell her. "The Reaping isn't as scary as it seems." It is, of
course, but she doesn't need to know that.

4. "But what if I get picked?" Mara asks, biting her bottom lip. I notice then that her hair is nearly
the same bronze as mine, and I think that she could be my sister.
"Don't be silly," I smile. "Your name is one slip in thousands. What are the odds?"
"Is that why you aren't scared? Because you know you aren't going to get picked?"
"Maybe I am scared, but I'm just better at hiding it," I suggest, and her eyes go wide. I press my
finger against my lips. "Sometimes, if we hide our feelings from other people, then we trick
ourselves into believing it too."
A Peacekeeper spots us and marches over, looking annoyed. I quickly bend down and give Mara
a hug. "Good luck," I whisper. "Put on a brave face and nothing can hurt you." Mara nods
gravely, and then flits off toward her section just before the Peacekeeper gets to me.
"Name?" he barks.
"I'm going," I say, unable to keep the sharp edge out of my voice. I dance around the scowling
man and hurry over to my designated area before he can write me up. In other districts, I've heard
that Peacekeepers keep discipline by threatening flogging and capital punishment, but here it's
much simpler. You mess up, you get written up. If your name shows up too many times on the
record, your family loses their fishing license. And since there isn't much to do in District 4
besides fish, poverty and starvation quickly follow.
I try to assimilate myself among the other fourteen year olds without attracting any notice, but I
realize that it's a fool's hope. Those same good looks that let me get away with pretty much
anything also mean that I'm always at the center of attention. My school friends instantly
surround me, chattering about how nervous they are, how much they hope one of the Careers –
kids specifically trained to compete in the Games – will volunteer this year so they don't have to
go to their deaths. I smile, and joke, and touch hands, and make vague but reassuring remarks,
but I'm just going through the motions. Not that they notice.
Then the big brass gong – a massive thing engraved with two dolphins circling each other
endlessly – is sounded, and the crowd falls silent. This means that the video crews are firing up
their cameras, and that the ceremony is about to start. Sure enough, Pompey Birch saunters onto
the stage a few seconds later, purple hair gleaming in the sunlight. He's new this year. Our last
director ate bad shellfish at a party in Capitol only a few weeks back, and they had to rush to find
a replacement in time.
"Welcome to the 65th Annual Hunger Games!" Pompey bellowed, apparently having decided to
forgo a microphone. "May the odds be ever in your favor!"
Some cheers from the audience, maybe a third of the people gathered. District 4 may not seem
like much, but we are actually one of the better off districts, and we have our fair share of people
who think the Hunger Games are exciting sport, not the annual slaughter of twenty-three

5. innocent children. That also explains why a Career pops up every couple of years – some
delusional parent dreaming of fame and glory for their kid, regardless of the cost.
But there don't seem to be any Careers this year. They usually make their way to the side of the
stage before the ceremony even begins so they can leap dramatically up on stage to volunteer. I
can't spot any eager teenagers lurking in the wings.
"The Hunger Games are one of Panem's most sacred traditions," Pompey declares, and begins to
wax poetic about the history of our nation. How the districts revolted, the razing of District 13,
the institution of the Games to remind us every year that we live at the mercy of the Capitol. I
tune it out. I've heard it a hundred times before. But I don't tune out the next part.
"Before we select the tributes, let's give a warm welcome to this year's mentors!" Pompey shouts,
making come-hither motions with his arms. Two people climb up on stage, one helping the other.
I see why a second later – one of the mentors is Mags, a lady in her seventies who's been a
permanent fixture at the games since I can remember. Usually it's supposed to be a guy and a girl
mentoring, but I see that the other mentor is a woman as well – Andromache, a sour-faced
brunette in her thirties.
"What happened to Mikael?" I whisper to one of my friends. Mikael is our only living male
victor – for some reason, District 4 boys just don't do very well in the arena, Career or not.
Which bodes incredibly well for me.
My friend shakes his head, but a blonde girl pipes up, "I heard that he contracted some nasty
disease in Capitol last year, and he's being kept there for observation."
"I heard he was assassinated!" another kid contributes.
So Mikael's disappeared off the face of the earth. I don't really care, to be honest, but it does
mean that if I get chosen I'll be paired with a female mentor. Not that this is a bad thing
necessarily, but I like to know my options. I eye Mags and Andromache – Andromache is staring
haughtily off into space, while Mags is hunched over beside her, knotting and unknotting a short
length of thin rope. Neither is particularly inspirational to me, and apparently not to Pompey
either, because he grimaces and then quickly moves on to the main event.
"And now, time to select the tributes!" Pompey walks over to the right side of the stage, where a
big plastic ball holds thousands of paper slips. He plunges a hand inside and draws out a slip.
"From the girls, this year's honor goes to Miss Calliope Rhodes!"
A prissy-looking blonde from the eighteen year old section gives a loud wail, and is instantly
enveloped by a group of sobbing girls who must have been her friends. The Peacekeepers extract
her with some difficulty and shove her up onto the stage, where she shakes from head to toe
while fat tears trace down her cheeks. Not so prissy anymore, I think, but I find it hard to feel
bad for her. Better a girl at least grown to womanhood than a helpless kid like Nara. At least
Calliope will stand a fighting chance, size-wise.

6. Pompey is calling for our attention again. He's walked over to the plastic ball at the other end of
the stage, and pulls out a slip. I hold my breath and pray.
"Finnick Odair," Pompey shouts in his unnaturally cheery voice.
Chapter Two
The emotional reaction of Calliope's friends when her name was called had not been out of the
ordinary, but it was definitely one of the more heart-wrenching ones that I've seen in my fourteen
years. The reaction when Pompey calls out my name is unlike anything I ever expected.
All the girls in my year start to bawl their eyes out. The guys stand in shocked silence for a
second, and then start to shout angrily at Pompey, who looks completely bewildered by the
extreme reaction.
I freeze for a few seconds, and then snap out of it. Maybe it's because I mentally prepare myself
for this eventuality every year, or maybe because somewhere in the back of my mind I think I
have a real shot at winning this, but what I feel right now is less terror, and more disappointment.
It's like when you play a card game and you bet everything you have, and then your opponent
reveals a royal flush.
When I start walking toward the stage and the crowd realizes who I am, pretty much every
female in the square joins in the sob-fest. I think how absurd it is for these people I've never met
to be crying over me, but of course I get why. It all comes down to looks – right now they're
probably thinking what a shame it is that such a handsome young boy's life is being snuffed out
before it's even begun. Then the Peacekeepers are at my side, nudging me toward the stage.
"Relax," I tell them, plastering my best smile on my face. "I'm not going to run." My smile is my
weapon of choice, because it disarms people so effectively, and they back off, although I can feel
them behind me as I navigate through the weeping masses toward the stage. One face catches my
eye, and I see Mara near the front of the crowd. She is staring at me, but there are no tears in her
eyes – putting on a brave face like I taught her. For some reason, this gives me the courage to
hop up on stage like I had been preparing all my life for this moment.
Pompey, who keeps glancing at the sniffling Calliope uneasily, seems relieved by my attitude.
The attitude of a victor, he thinks, although I know the truth. I just want to get through this in one
piece, and I'll do and act however I have to in order to achieve my goal. He swaggers over and
claps me on the shoulder. "Looks like we have a fighter this year, ladies and gentlemen!"
Every woman in the square continues to wail, although some pointed looks from the
Peacekeepers stationed around the perimeter soon have them back in line. When his audience is
more or less paying attention to him again, Pompey raises his hands in the air. "Let's have a big
cheer for this year's District 4 tributes!"
As half-hearted applause breaks out – although a few callous individuals whoop loudly – I scan
the crowd for my father and sister. The stage is raised, and for a moment I feel like I am back on

7. the fishing boat, staring out at the waves. But now the waves are people, and suddenly the
enormity of the situation hits me.
I feel my throat close up, but then I see my father's grave face way at the back of the square, and
I shove my fear to the back of my mind. Every year my father asks me what I will do if I'm
chosen, and my answer is always the same: whatever I have to. Because nothing is more
important than coming home.
After the ceremony, Calliope and I are herded into the Justice building. I've never been here
before, but I've talked to people who have. They weren't exaggerating. Two-story marble
columns, velvet-covered staircases, tapestries that cover entire walls... incredible. Too bad I only
get to see the place now, when I may only have a few weeks left to appreciate it.
They lead Calliope through an ornately carved wooden door, and then direct me to the next room
over. I haven't had a chance to talk to her since we were both chosen. Although to be honest,
considering I may have to kill her, I'm not sure I want to get to know her.
Inside the room, there's a table and chairs set up looking out a huge curtained window. The
Peacekeepers leave me to my own devices, so I go and look through the glass. It is clearly
designed to give a view of the main square directly below, but of more interest to me is the
sparkling sea on the horizon. I wonder if I'll ever see it again, and then dismiss the thought. Of
course I will. I'm coming home, whatever it takes. I repeat the mantra mentally until the door
swings open again.
Natare and father enter the room, and the door is closed behind them. Nice of the Capitol to give
us this moment together, although I know from watching past Hunger Games that we're being
televised right now through hidden cameras.
Father stands stoically beside the door while Natare bursts into tears and runs forward, throwing
herself into my arms. "It's okay," I tell her, patting her head soothingly. "What does father
always say? Nothing is more important than coming home." I grab her hands and kneel down in
front of her. "Natare, I'm coming home. I promise."
She cries because she's a little girl and she loves me. But she's not stupid. "You don't know that,"
Natare wails, burrowing her head into my shoulder. "You can't know that."
I stand up straight and force a grin. "Of course I can. You said it yourself – I'm irresistible. I'll
just flash my smile at the cameras, and the lovely ladies of Capitol will be falling over
themselves to lend a helping hand." I strike a ridiculous pose, and Natare finally begins to calm
down.
Father comes up to me now, speaking in a low voice so my sister can't hear what we say. "How
are you?" he murmurs, concern lacing his words.

8. I'm still smiling, because if I stop I'm afraid I might lose it entirely. "Terrified. Beyond belief.
Scared to death of dying, which is kind of poetic if you think about it. But at the same time I'm
completely calm. Does that make sense?"
Then father claps me on my shoulder, evoking memories of Pompey Birch. But his hand is warm
and comforting, whereas Pompey's was light and trembling, as if he were about to explode from
excitement. "You have the ability to survive this," he tells me. "I won't try to tell you how to pull
this off, but I have faith in you that you will find a way. Just remember your training."
"The other children are sharks," I say, but now that I'm actually faced with the reality of killing
them, I'm not sure I can pretend they're just fish. But father doesn't need to know that. "I'm fine
now," I assure him, speaking loud enough for Natare to hear. I add in a confident, lop-sided
smirk to support my statement. Father and Natare are not convinced, but I think that the people
in Capitol watching right now just might have fallen for it.
When father and Natare hug me goodbye and leave, I wait impatiently for the next visitor.
Tributes are allowed one hour of farewells before they're shipped off to the Capitol for the
Games. I figure that a few of my classmates will probably stop in to wish me luck, or maybe one
of the numerous housewives that fawn over me as I wander through town after school. But
finally the hour elapses and still no one has come through the door. I'm kind of disappointed, to
be honest.
Pompey pokes his head into the room, looking distressed, which is a good look for him. It
humanizes him, which I personally think a lot of the Capitol citizens could use. "You must be
wondering why no one visited you," he says in a raspy voice, like he's been doing a lot of talking
– or possibly shouting – recently.
"I saw my family," I say, shrugging. "Whatever." I'm finding that the nonchalant, devil-may-care
attitude is working pretty well for me, so I stick with it. It's not that far from my actual
personality, so I slip into the bored-teen act without too much difficulty.
Pompey doesn't seem to hear a word I say. "There were so many, I wasn't sure," he mutters.
"They all claim to know you personally – how am I supposed to sort out who tells the truth?"
I understand what's been upsetting him so much without too big a leap of the imagination. "I'm
guessing there were a few girls who wanted to see me?"
Pompey's hands fly up in the air in agitation. "Hundreds! Pouring into the Justice building! No
sense of personal space! I tried to hear them out, but there were so many I had to have the
Peacekeepers escort them out! All those tears..." His head hangs down miserably, as if he's failed
me on some way.
And somehow I find myself reassuring him. Hard to be mad at someone who reminds you of a
lost little kid. "I prefer it this way," I say, then remember the cameras are probably still on me.
"I'd rather not let the girls see me cry." I put on a look of determination, as if I'm valiantly

9. holding back tears. Natare once told me that I'm a great actor, able to convey even the subtlest
emotions if I really try – I'm counting on that now. It might keep me alive.
Pompey cheers up, and claps his hands excitedly. "Then it's time to be on our way to Capitol!
The Hunger Games wait on no man!" He scurries over to the doorway, beckoning eagerly for me
to follow him. Restraining the urge to roll my eyes, I put on another fake smile and follow
obediently after him.
Chapter Three
The train ride is beyond anything I had expected. I lean out the window of my spacious cabin,
letting the wind blow my hair back. I imagine I'm at sea, skipping across the waves, and think
how much easier our lives would be if our little boats could go as fast as this train.
Someone knocks at my door and Pompey calls, "It's time to meet your team, Finnick!"
I've already met my team, sort of. Mags and Andromache accompanied Calliope and I on our
short tour of the train, although they didn't say a word the entire time. Considering they make
this trip every year, it probably isn't very exciting for them. But I make sure to ask questions,
laugh at Pompey's jokes, and be as charming a companion as possible, because it's all practice
for the main event. If I can figure out how to win Pompey's heart, I'm pretty sure I can do the
same to the people of Capitol.
Still wearing father's hand-me-downs, I saunter out into the main cabin and take in the scene.
Mags, Andromache, and Calliope are seated in armchairs in a circle, with a low coffee table in
the middle. Scenery tumbles past in the window behind Andromache. Two chairs are empty, and
Pompey makes waving motions with his arms. I flash him a smile and sit down next to Mags,
while Pompey claps his hands delightedly and plops down beside me.
"I'm really excited for our chances this year!" Pompey gushes. I notice that when he talks, he
kind of bounces up and down like a little kid. I've heard that some of the victors hate their
directors, but I can't quite muster up that sort of negative emotion for Pompey. He looks like he
doesn't have a malicious bone in his body.
"Usually we would have a male victor mentor the male tribute, and vice versa for the girls,"
Pompey says, "but since that isn't the case, I'm not really sure how to proceed."
Andromache gives me a long once-over, and I suppress a shudder. Something about that woman
unnerves me, so I say quickly, "I'll take Mags." Mags looks up from her knitting – I guess she
got tired of tying knots in rope – and gives me a gap-toothed smile. I don't think I've ever heard
her actually say anything, but I'd rather her than creepy Andromache.
"That sounds just fine," Pompey chirps, clapping his hands again. Then he glances down at the
watch on his wrist. "Oh my, I have so many things to do before we reach the Capitol! We'll be
there in a few hours, so why don't you all get acquainted until then?" He nods fervently for at
least ten seconds, then beams at us and scurries from the compartment.

10. When no one says anything – I think Calliope is still stifling tears from earlier – I sigh and start
the ball rolling. "This train is amazing. I feel like I'm sailing, but super quickly. Even the motion
of the train reminds of me of the sea – rocking side to side, but not enough to unbalance you. I
wonder if the Capitol designed these trains from watching our fishing boats sail across the
waves."
My pointless rambling succeeds in relaxing Calliope, whose eyes are still red but at least she isn't
making little sniffling noises every few seconds. Andromache watches me with keen eyes, and
Mags keeps knitting like she hasn't heard a thing I've said.
"You talk like that all the time?" Andromache suddenly barks at me. She taps her finger against
her lips. "With all the smiling and the eye contact?"
I stare straight at her. "I know how good looking I am," I tell her point-blank. "And if you're
trying to ask me whether or not I intend to use every advantage I have to win, then yes, I am."
Andromache returns my gaze for a long moment, and then laughs loudly. "I'd think you were a
Career, if I didn't know better. You just might have a fighting chance after all, pretty boy." I'm
not sure I like nickname, but I smile and nod all the same. She grins, as if I've passed some sort
of test that I wasn't even aware I was taking.
Eventually my companions start to open up, although it takes the entire train ride for me to get a
proper sense of who each one is. I compile a mental inventory in my mind, locking away each
piece of information I get in case I need to refer to it later. As if my looks weren't enough of a
gift, I also have a very, very good memory. Natare complains sometimes that it isn't fair, but
she's already turning into quite the looker, and she soaks up facts like a sponge, so I don't think
she's in a position to argue.
We're due in Capitol within the hour, so I retire to my cabin for the interim to compose myself.
Everything suddenly goes dark outside, and I realize we've entered the mountain tunnel that will
lead us into the Capitol. I hear that the ride in from District 12 takes days, but District 4 is really
close to the Capitol so it's only a few hours. I shut the curtains and lie back on my bed, thinking
about my companions. Considering that my understanding of them might save my life, I take the
exercise seriously.
Calliope is eighteen, pretty, and somewhat stuck-up, the daughter of a carpenter and therefore
belonging to the upper strata of society. She spends most of her time either in school, or lounging
on the beach with her friends. Her skin is sun-kissed, like pretty much everyone in District 4, and
she has never hurt a living creature in her life. She is absolutely terrified by the idea of going into
the arena, and admitted to us that she has no idea how she's going to survive. What Calliope
doesn't mention is that because she helps her father out in the carpentry, she's probably handy
with a saw. I'll have to keep an eye on her.
Andromache won the games eighteen years ago as a Career, which explains her harsh demeanor.
She has the requisite blood-thirsty streak that made her volunteer to participate in the Games, and
I can tell that she hates Calliope already because the girl is constantly on the verge of tears.

11. When I asked her how she won, she smiled maliciously and said, "My year was the one where
they stuck us in a desert and gave us spiked maces." I could figure out the rest, so I didn't ask for
clarification.
Mags is still more or less a mystery to me, because she barely talks and, when she does, it's in
this low, incomprehensible mumble that Andromache has to translate for us. Weirdly enough,
this comforts me, because it means that if I spend enough time with the old lady I'll be able to
understand her too. Considering she's my mentor, this is probably a good thing. Mags won fifty-
four years ago, and when I ask her how she managed it, she pulls a crumpled photo out of her
dress. It depicts a stunningly beautiful young woman that, if I squint really hard, just might be
Mags as a girl.
Lying on my bed, I'm sure now that I made the right choice of mentors. If Mags really did win
through looks, as she seems to be implying, then she might just be the perfect mentor for me,
because I'm planning on winning the same way.
The train slides smoothly to a stop, and then Pompey is banging away at my door again. "Finnick!
Time to get going! The Games wait!" Because I'm trying to keep on his good side, I call out a
friendly response, then force myself off the comfy bed. Once I'm out of my room, Pompey grabs
my arm and pulls me toward the exit, jabbering away about parades and interviews and all
manner of Games-related things.
We step out into the sunshine, and I get my first proper look at the Capitol. Towering, candy-
colored buildings, broad avenues filled with motorcars, makeup-plastered people in crazy getups
strolling along in a leisurely fashion.
"What do you think?" Pompey asks me happily.
"Amazing," I say, because it's what he wants to hear. Some tributes – usually the ones from the
poorer districts – act all belligerent and hostile to the Capitol, which I think is just stupid. You
don't bite the hand that feeds you, even if the hand is planning on throwing you to your untimely
death. Besides, if I survive this mess, I'll be coming back to this glittering fairyland every year.
Best to make a good first impression.
Calliope comes up behind me – she's sobbing again – and then Mags and Andromache round out
our party. Pompey leads us to the Training Center, a huge silver spire that must be where we'll be
staying until the Games commence. Inside, we are immediately whisked onto an elevator.
Pompey hits the 4 button, and within seconds we spill out into a blue-themed sitting room
dominated by a large wooden table.
Pompey directs us to sit at the table. Avoxes – speechless slaves clad in white – soon pile the
table high with tureens of soup, platters of meat, and baskets of bread. I briefly consider trying
one of the red meat dishes – I've only had beef once in my life – but I end up sticking with fish.
It reminds me of home, and it helps put me at ease. I lead the conversation, chatting amiably
about whatever pops into my head, and my companions embrace the light-hearted atmosphere

12. willingly enough. Well, except for Calliope, but I've pretty much come to the conclusion that
she's never going to stop crying.
After the meal, Pompey sends us to bed early. "Big day tomorrow!" he says excitedly. "You'll
meet your prep team, and then it's the opening ceremonies! Get your beauty sleep, because you'll
need it! Ha ha!" Calliope breaks down again, and Pompey quickly disappears into his own room
after that. I don't think he's had to deal with a lot of crying girls in his time – what would the
people in Capitol have to cry about, anyway?
I head for my own room, but just as I'm about to shut the door I realize that Mags has followed
me. I hold it open, and she toddles past me into the room. When the shut the door and turn
around, she's planted herself on the green loveseat beside the window, knitting away.
"Did you want to talk to me about something?" I ask her.
She mumbles something. I think I make out the name "Liron", but I'm not sure so I sit down on
my bed and wait for her to explain. When she doesn't, I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth
and change into pajamas. I found them earlier in one of the drawers – emerald boxer shorts with
little golden cornucopias on them. Cute.
When I come back out and Mags stares at me, I realize that I'm shirtless. Most women don't
mind me shirtless – in fact, they seem to find ways to encourage it – but Mags is an old woman
and I wonder if it's disrespectful for me to be around her like this. I pull open one of the drawers
stacked to the brim with clothes and start to pull out a shirt.
"Don't," Mags rasps suddenly. I pause and look at her. She mumbles something about shirts, and
she's getting pretty worked up about it, so I put the shirt back in the drawer and shut it. This
calms her down, and she gives me a gap-toothed smile. I wonder if she's trying to tell me
something.
Not sure what she wants from me, and not ready to go to sleep with her there, I lie back on my
bed and pillow my head behind my arms. At first the clacking of her knitting needles is annoying,
but soon it starts to lull me to sleep. The clacking turns into the splashing of oars in the water,
and I drift away.
Chapter Four
I wake up to the sound of crunching the next morning. Peering blurrily around the cabin, I see
that Mags is still sitting on the loveseat, but instead of knitting she's staring out the window
eating sugar cubes, of all things. She has a little blue bowl piled high with them, and she's
popping them like pills. I wonder if she's been here all night, but she's in a different dress, so I'm
guessing she went back to her own room at some point.
When Mags sees I'm awake, she wobbles over to me and crouches down, extending the bowl. I
prop myself up on an elbow and snag a sugar cube. Sugar being a rare commodity in District 4,

13. it's almost too sweet for me, but she's nodding, so I swallow it down and take another. This one
goes down easier, and by the third I've decided that I've found my new vice.
She mumbles about sugar for a few minutes, and I gradually begin to make out some of the
words. It's not that she slurs the words, she just says them so quietly, and so quickly, that it
comes out as a steady hum. When I focus and really listen hard, I can more or less understand
her.
"So what delightful new horrors await me today?" I ask her, cutting her sugar ramblings short.
Mags cackles and pops another sugar cube. I grab a handful and crunch on them as she talks.
"The opening ceremonies begin at dusk," she says, one of her hands going up to fiddle with the
ends of her wavy white hair. "I'm sure you've seen it on TV – chariots with tributes going round
and round the City Circle, people cheering. Then speeches by President Snow and Seneca Crane,
the Head Gamemaker." Her voice goes even quieter, which makes it impossible to make out the
words – I think she's saying something about the opening ceremonies being a waste of time, but
it's hard to tell.
"Why did you stay here last night?" I ask her out the blue.
Mags gives me a long, hard look. Then she says, "I think you can win. I want you to win."
"Who's Liron?"
She laughs faintly. "You don't miss a thing. Liron is my grandson. Was my grandson. He was
wiped out in the plague. Same for his parents."
"I remind you of him," I say. It isn't a question. Mags nods, and says nothing. Well, I think, this
certainly explains a lot. It also makes me trust her, because if I remind her of her grandson, then
she has a vested interest in keeping me alive. Which suits me just fine.
"I'm going to take a shower," I tell her. I drop the remainder of my sugar cubes back into her
bowl. "Thank you for the sugar cubes," I add. "They're delicious." I hear her give a muffled sob
as I shut the bathroom door. Did she used to eat sugar cubes with her grandson?
The shower has dozens of buttons, so I pick the biggest one and press it. Warm water sprinkles
down from the ceiling like rain, and I let my cares float with the water down the drain.
When I re-emerge wrapped in a towel, Mags is gone and a green bathrobe is waiting on the bed.
I ignore it and go for the drawers, but they're empty. Getting the hint, I pull on the bathrobe,
discard the towel, and head out to the main room.
Pompey's waiting for me, a big grin on his face. "Opening ceremonies tonight!" he half-shouts,
beside himself with anticipation. "Ready to meet your prep team?" He winks at me. "Not that
you'll much need it, eh?"

14. Four people stride into the room – or, rather, one man strides in, his bright green hair nearly
blinding me, and three young women follow him. They all have shoulder-length blue hair and
silver tattoos across their cheeks. I realize quickly that they must be identical triplets. That, or
they had a little too much fun with plastic surgery.
"I am Germanicus," the green-haired guy announces, as if he's enriching my life just by being in
the same room. He sees me staring at the girls, so he adds, "These are my assistants."
"Livia," the first one introduces, curtseying.
"Lorenna," says the second.
"Laria," says the third.
Since they're going to be working with me closely, I bestow one of my most charming smiles on
them. They give a loud "awww" and come to swarm around me, stroking their hands through my
hair, touching my arms, fingering my clothes. I'm not sure whether they're attracted to me, or
they just see me as a life-sized dress up doll.
"This is your stylist," Pompey says unnecessarily. "Germanicus is considered a genius among
fashion circles. He's been styling District 4 tributes for decades."
I remember now, seeing him on TV when Capitol forces us to watch the Games broadcast each
year. Being a guy, I never really cared about the fashion part of the Games, so I didn't make the
connection until now. And then I realize the implications.
Germanicus is hardcore old-fashioned. By this I mean that he adheres to the old style of opening
ceremonies costumes, which is to make your tributes look as much like their district's specialty
as possible. Ever since I can remember, he has dressed his tributes up as all manner of sea
creatures – fish, seahorses, even eels one time – and every year they look ridiculous.
I look around for Mags, hoping she'll have some words of wisdom for me, but she's disappeared
somewhere. And Pompey leaves a minute later, claiming some sort of schedule emergency,
leaving me at the mercy of Germanicus. He rips off my robe before I can protest, and begins to
take mental notes aloud.
"Good body," he says, circling me like a piranha. "Excellent cheekbones... and those eyes!" He
peers into my sea green eyes like they're the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. "You've just
given me my color palette, my child!"
I hate it that he calls me "my child". It sounds infantile and degrading, but it's not like I can argue.
If I annoy him, he might dress me up in an even more absurd outfit than usual, although I'm not
even sure that's possible.

15. "Beauty Base Zero," he tells the triplets, which is apparently some kind of code. He swishes off
out the door, and immediately they descend on me, rubbing various ointments into my skin and
chattering away to each other.
I think about talking to them, charming them onto my side, but I figure out pretty soon that I
already have them in the palm of my hand. They live for beautiful things, and I'm about the most
beautiful thing they've ever seen. If I asked one of them to marry me right here and now, I'd bet
my fishing boat that they'd say yes.
Germanicus returns a few hours later in early afternoon, and joins me for lunch. As we eat, he
raves about the costume he's prepared for me. I'm not really listening – like I said, fashion bores
me – but I hear him mention scales more than once, so I'm probably going to be a fish of some
sort.
I get a few hours off in the afternoon, so I go back to my room and lie down, thinking about
nothing in particular. It surprises me that I'm not more freaked out by my impending death, but I
don't dissect my feelings too much. If I do, I might actually get worked up about it, and then I
wouldn't be able to sleep. And that's hardly going to help me in the long run.
Someone knocks on the door, and they slide a coil of rope under the door. It has a little tag on
that says, "I thought you might use this to pass the time," and I realize it's from Mags. I decide
that I'm really starting to like the sweet old lady. So I spend the afternoon making complex knots
with the rope to keep my mind off my situation.
Germanicus calls me out around four o'clock. He has me strip down again, then helps me into a
shiny gold bodysuit that's covered with thousands of tiny, glittering scales. It has a deep V
neckline that shows off my chest. I'm starting to think that this outfit might actually work in my
favor when he plops a hat on my head.
"Take a look," he says generously, turning me toward a full-length mirror that the triplets rolled
in when they arrived. They ooh and ahh at how wonderful I look, but I can't tear my eyes away
from the hat. It's huge, and horrible, and looks like a giant gold fish head, complete with bulbous
eyes and gaping mouth.
"It's... great," I say, because what else am I supposed to do? Germanicus gives a theatrical bow,
then sweeps out of the room with his triplet entourage. Pompey and Mags come in once they
leave, and when they spot my hat, neither of them is quite able to keep a straight face.
"He's a genius, all right," I quip, and Pompey laughs loudly.
Chapter Five
"Time to go," Pompey says, and they lead me into the elevator and down into the bowels of the
Training Center. We emerge in a large, noisy room that's full of horse-drawn chariots and
tributes. Pompey leaves me in Mags' hands and heads off to locate Calliope and Andromache.

16. Mags leans toward me conspiratorially. "Keep the hat on for now, but as soon as that chariot
starts rolling, get rid of it," she whispers.
"I didn't know I was allowed to do that," I reply, although I had of course been thinking the exact
same thing.
Mags winks, and I like her even more.
She looks at a big clock on the wall, and says, "You have a few minutes before the ceremonies
start. Go meet some of your fellow tributes." She grips my arm and looks into my eyes. "You're a
Career."
I'm not a Career, which she knows very well. But then I get what she's saying. I'm tall, I'm built,
and I could very easily pass for a Career. Since the Careers inevitably team up, and I have
nothing to lose by pretending to be one of them, I decide to go along with the plan. "Capitol?" I
ask, hoping she'll get the underlying question.
"They like underdogs," Mags says, "but Careers are always nearest and dearest to their hearts." I
nod. I can fake being a Career – actually, since I've been using knives, spears, and tridents all my
life, I may even be considered one already.
Mags wanders off to the District 4 chariot, which is festooned with coral and big plastic starfish.
I'm tempted to follow her, but meeting the other tributes is more important. Because if I can
make them pause for just a moment, make them second guess whether or not they want to kill
their handsome, enchanting friend from District 4, I'll have the upper hand. And sometimes, in
the arena, that's all you need.
I only have time to meet a few tributes, though, so I head for the District 1 and 2 chariots.
They're the Careers, and they will be the ones I team up with if I play my cards right. I swagger
over to District 1, where the tributes – a slim brunette girl with darting eyes and a tall, muscular
boy with a wicked-looking scar across one cheek – are standing. Their stylist must also subscribe
to the old way, because they are covered from head to toe in precious gems. Their chariot looks
like a giant ruby and is pulled by roan horses.
"Nice gems," I say to the girl, sidling up to her and caressing her arm with one hand. She turns to
me, looking affronted, but then she takes in my face and my smile and responds with a coy look.
"Finnick," I breathe, nice and close to her ear to make it as intimate as possible. I don't flirt all
that much, but I've seen it done enough to mimic the motions to great effect.
She shivers – a good shiver, I think – and says, "Gemma."
Apparently feeling left out – or possibly thinking that I'm invading his territory – scar boy flexes
his muscles and steps beside us. "Orion," he grunts. "What do you want?"

17. "Just meeting and greeting," I say lightly, offering him my hand. He eyes me suspiciously for a
moment, then takes it. "What do you think?" I ask. Orion obviously has no idea what I'm asking
– I mentally note that he's slow on the uptake – but Gemma gets it pretty quickly.
"2 looks pretty strong," she says, glancing toward the appropriate chariot. The boy and girl are
both red-heads, and since District 2's production is stone, they are covered in white powder to
look like marble statues. Some red hairs peek through the white coating every here and there,
though. At least they're wearing loincloths – and in the girl's case, a wrap around her chest –
because nudity isn't disallowed. In fact, the poor saps from District 12 show up half the time in
nothing but coal dust.
"Alliance?" I ask Gemma, and she glances at Orion. He appraises me for a bit, then shrugs.
Gemma beams at me and offers her hand, which I pull up to my mouth and kiss. This sends her
into a fit of giggles, which does not seem to amuse Orion. I suspect he might have designs on
Gemma – as pointless as they are, considering only one of us is leaving the arena alive – so I
decide to keep the flirting to a minimum around him.
I'm just about to go chat with 2, and maybe broach the idea of them joining our little threesome,
when the triplets hurry over to me, looking harassed. I spot Germanicus shouting over by our
sea-themed chariot, and figure he's been looking for me for a while now.
"Where have you been?" Livia pouts, tugging at my arm.
"Germanicus is livid," Lorenna says.
"The ceremonies are about to start!" Laria adds, and between the three of them they drag me over
to Germanicus.
He pushes me up onto the chariot, where Calliope is already standing, shaking and clearly on the
verge of tears. Her stylist – a short, chubby woman with silver skin – barks, "Stop crying, you'll
ruin the makeup." Once the two stylists are assured that we are in place and our outfits are good
to go, they bustle off to take their places in the stands.
Calliope is still trembling, so I place my hand softly against her shoulder. She's dressed
identically to me, fish hat and all. "Try to smile," I urge her. I wonder for a second if she's just
pretending to be a nervous wreck, so that when she turns out to be a deadly killer in the arena no
one will see it coming. But her tears seem pretty real, so I try to give her the benefit of the doubt.
"Thanks, Finnick," Calliope says, and she manages a small smile. "Thanks for being nice to me.
You don't have to."
"Sure I do," I dismiss. "You're my teammate. We have to look out for each other."
She laughs bitterly. "I'm not an idiot, pretty boy. When we get into the arena, you'll be gunning
for me, same as everyone else."

18. "I won't be gunning for you," I say, and it's the truth. I don't really have a desire to kill anyone.
Well, maybe if one of the tributes looks exactly like President Snow, but the odds of that
happening are slim.
"But if you come across me in the arena and think you can kill me, you will," she presses.
That's also the truth, although not one I feel like admitting aloud. So I duck my head, and she
softens. "Sorry," she says. "I forget you're just a kid. This must be as hard on you as it is on me."
I shrug, turning away from her. Calliope makes me uncomfortable, maybe because I'm starting to
get to know her now, and I can't reconcile that with the fact that she's going to be my mortal
enemy in a few days. "I'm going to take off this stupid hat as soon as we get into the plaza," I tell
her. "You may want to do the same."
She smiles for real this time. "Thank god. It's hideous, isn't it?"
"Horrendous," I agree.
Then the music starts up, and our horses head over to the big double doors, where a line is
forming. We're behind District 3, who are dressed up like giant gears and look even dumber than
we do. As we planned, as soon as our chariot passes through the doors, Calliope and I pull the
fish hats off our heads and stuff them by our feet.
I see some of the tributes waving at the cheering crowds pressed around us, while others shake in
fear, or stare off into space like they're better than everyone else. Since I've decided to go with
the approach of making them all love me, I wink and smile mysteriously and basically flirt with
the crowd. It works like magic, and soon they start chanting my name. When I start to blow
kisses to the crowd, some of the women actually jump up in the air, trying to catch them. I glance
up at the jumbo-screen set up behind President Snow's stage, and see that I'm getting way more
than my fair share of screen time.
By the time we go back through the doors into the Training Center, I'm exhausted from my mass
seduction, and Calliope has tears welling in her eyes. "It's over," I remind her. "You did great."
"But not as well as you," she sobs, and the waterworks start to flow again. I think she realizes
what I'm trying to do, not that I was being particularly stealthy about it. And she must think it's
working, because she lets out a loud wail and runs for the elevator.
The other tributes are heading in a steady trickle for the door, but I see that nearly every girl
glances back at me at one point or another, as do most of the guys. "It's just unfair," one of the
boys mutters to another tribute, and I can't help but agree with him. I did nothing to deserve my
angel face, but I'm sure as hell not stupid enough not to take advantage of what I have.
Mags is waiting for me in my room with a bowl of sugar cubes. If she's trying to win her way
into my heart via sweet treats, she's doing remarkably well. "How'd I do?" I ask her, ripping off

19. the golden bodysuit. I'm wearing underwear, so it's not like I'm stripping naked in front of her.
Then I collapse onto my bed.
She scuttles over to me and offers up the sugar cubes. I take a few and wait for her response.
"You're a smart boy," she finally says.
"Capitol people are shallow," I tell her. "And I've always been good with making people fall in
love with me. A smile here, a wink there. But will it work?"
Mags pulls out the picture of her as a girl again. "It worked for me," she says, although she has a
faraway look in her eyes. "But that was before..." she trails off.
"Before what?" I press, but she doesn't answer. So instead I ask, "Am I doing it right?"
She cackles. "You're a natural. And now you should sleep. Training tomorrow." Mags hands me
a single sugar cube, and then leaves.
I pop the cube in my mouth and stare at the ceiling, lost in thought.
Chapter Six
I meet up with Calliope the next morning when Mags and I join her and Andromache in the
elevator on the way down to the training level. She seems to have recovered from her breakdown
last night, but Andromache keeps glancing at me in this calculating way that really makes me
nervous. Then Mags puts her hand on my arm and I relax.
We step off the elevator, and I look out on the training room. It's the same as I remember from
TV – long, high-ceilinged room lined with booths devoted to pretty much anything you can think
of.
I already know what Mags is going to say before she speaks. "Go make friends," she says, and I
nod. As I head over to the nearest booth – archery – Calliope follows in my footsteps like a
shadow. I guess she's sticking by me at Andromache's request – she probably thinks Calliope
will survive longer if people associate her with me.
I've just picked up a bow and started to string it when the District 2 tributes come over to
introduce themselves. "I'm Rock, and this is Martia," the boy says. He's taller than me, and older
as well, so I don't make a smart remark about his ridiculous name. The flame-haired, freckle-
faced Martia eyes me in obvious interest, which works just fine for me.
"Finnick," I say, shaking their hands. Then I remember my tail. "And Calliope, my District
mate." Calliope's holding it together much better today – you can barely tell that she's valiantly
holding back tears. "Feel like shooting a few arrows with us?" That's my way of asking if they
want to join our Career pack, and they catch on instantly.

20. "Sounds fun," Rock says, picking up the biggest bow. He fits in an arrow and makes a fairly
decent shot. I tell myself to be extra wary of him if he gets his hands on a bow.
After about fifteen minutes of archery – we don't have bows in District 4, so I'm not exactly
impressing anyone with my skills – I spot Gemma and Orion over at the knives station. They are
both sparring with trainers, and they are both very, very good. "That's Gemma and Orion over at
knives, from District 1," I tell my companions. Since District 1 means Careers, they have no
problem going to say hello.
We spend the next three days as a pack, the six of us – Orion and Gemma, Rock and Martia, me
and Calliope. We eat together and train together. And even though we rebuff the advances of a
few tributes looking to join our little alliance, I make sure to shoot them a smile. No point in
making unnecessary enemies.
Since I know that I'm good with knives and spears, I show off my skills to prove to the Careers
that I'm more than just a pretty face. I make sure to do this early on the first day, so they open up
to me right away. It turns out that Calliope really is quite good with a saw, and although the
Careers shoot her annoyed looks every once in a while, they seem to accept her presence.
Mags waits for me each night in my room, ready to dispense wisdom which I am quickly coming
to value highly. The first night, she praises me on showing the Careers what I can do, but
suggests I avoid giving too much away. So the next day, when we head for the knot-tying booth,
I act really hopeless and end up tying Martia and myself together with rope. She's giggling the
whole time, so I know that I'm definitely getting in her good books.
After the second day of training, Mags tells me in a no-nonsense tone to spend at least an hour at
the edible plants booth, and the same amount of time at the wilderness survival station. "It could
save your life," she says, and I believe her, so I do what she tells me the next day.
We also talk about the private sessions that come at the end of the third training day. Each tribute
gets fifteen minutes alone with the Gamemakers to prove how good they are, and the
Gamemakers assign them a mark between 1 and 12. 1 means you're the walking dead, and 12
means you're impossibly good – no one has ever gotten a 12, but 1s crop up every now and then.
Mags sits me down on my bed and stares at me for at least five minutes. Then she smoothes my
hair with one wrinkled hand. I know she's thinking of Liron, her lost grandson. "You're good
with knives and spears," she finally says, getting down to business. "I would say swim, but
there's no pool."
We both laugh at that. Every person in District 4 learns to swim, most before they can walk. If
this were a swimming competition, they would already be handing me the crown. Calliope might
give me a run for my money, but she doesn't have my muscles, plus she didn't spend her
childhood on a boat.
Mags scrutinizes me closer. "We need something really unique to make you stand out. You're a
fisher – do you ever go out deep enough, where the sharks and big sea creatures live?"

21. "All the time," I say, and I think I can see where she's going with this. Luckily for her, I've got a
little secret tucked up my sleeve that's exactly what she's looking for. "I'm pretty handy with a
trident."
She nods, but says, "I don't think you'll be finding one of those in the arena."
"But for training?"
Mags considers this for a moment. "That might work. You're good?"
"Very," I say confidently, because I am.
She smiles and hands me the sugar cubes.
The personal training sessions start up after lunch on the third day. I mess around with my Career
pack until the first of them is called in. Since they go District by District, I don't have to wait too
long. When one of the attendants says, "District 4, Finnick Odair," I take a deep breath and head
into the examination room.
Most of the Gamemakers are leaning forward in their chairs when I walk in, which amuses me. I
guess they remember me from the opening ceremonies. Playing along, I wink at one of the
women, and she gets a dreamy look in her eyes. It's like taking candy from a child, I think, then
take my place in the middle of the room and wait for instructions.
"Impress us, Mister Odair," Seneca Crane tells me. I'm pretty sure I've already given them quite
an impression – and I suspect that if I just stand there for the whole fifteen minutes looking
gorgeous, I'll probably end up with a halfway decent score. But I need a high score to cement my
place with the Careers.
I head for the spears station, and spot a few metal tridents stacked up in the back corner. Picking
up one, I make my way back to center stage, dragging a practice dummy along for the
demonstration. I'm about to start when I get a great idea. I pull off my shirt and toss it aside, and
I hear a few sighs from my audience.
Then I let my trident fly, and suddenly they have a whole new reason to be impressed. It's a
natural extension of my arm, and I can put it wherever I want almost unerringly. I aim for the
groin, and the trident imbeds several inches into the dummy's waist. Then I turn and give a little
bow, making sure to end it with an oh-so-subtle hip thrust. The women stare at me, eyes glazed
over with lust. Even though I don't look fourteen, I wonder if they've forgotten how young I am.
Or if they even care.
I go grab a few more tridents and throw them, then do some basic combat moves. I make sure to
do them slowly, so those voyeuristic Capitol stooges can eat up every move, every pose. When I
finish with a cocky grin and a wink, the women start applauding madly. Seneca Crane shushes
them, and I'm escorted out.

22. The other Careers – great, now I'm thinking that I actually am a Career – are waiting for me, and
ask me how it went. "I think I heard applause?" Gemma says. Then she notices I'm missing my
shirt and ogles my chest.
I strike a pose. "They couldn't get enough of me." Since even the most taciturn of my Career
pack have warmed up to me in the last two days, they all laugh appreciatively. But I know that
Orion is faking it, and Rock has a calculating glint in his eye. I haven't forgotten for a second that
none of these teenagers are my friends.
Back up on the fourth floor, Mags, Andromache, and Pompey are waiting for me. I entertain
them with a pointless story for a few minutes until Calliope shows up, on the verge of tears again.
"How'd it go?" I ask her..
Predictably, her response takes the form of bursting into tears. Again I wonder if this is all some
carefully calculated act, but I remind myself that she's been this weepy ever since her name was
called at the Reaping. I don't know if anyone is that good an actress.
"I expect she sawed some boards," Andromache says dismissively. "Maybe built them a chair.
Useless girl." I'm abruptly furious with her – she's supposed to be Calliope's mentor, and this is
the job she does! No wonder Calliope can barely string two sentences together. I prepare to ream
her out, but Mags gets there first. She rants too quickly and quietly for me to make it all out, but
Andromache looks suitably shame-faced by the end of it.
Apparently trying to make peace, Andromache says, "Sorry. I didn't mean it. I'm sure you did
fine, Calliope. Dear." She stands up and goes to give Calliope the most awkward hug I've ever
witnessed. Thank god I had the good sense to choose Mags over that witch.
Mags tosses me a sugar cube. I suck on it and tell her how my evaluation went. "I threw some
tridents around, did some basic moves. Oh, and I took off my shirt." Mags laughs at that, and
even Calliope manages a small smile.
Calliope glances down at her chest, which is on the buxom side. "I wonder if they would have
given me a better mark if I took off my clothes."
"Who knows?" I shrug. "You're pretty hot – it might have worked."
She laughs, and I give her a friendly one-armed hug. If I had known that boorish comments were
the way to her heart, I would have tried them sooner.
Pompey finally pipes up, apparently tired of being in the background. "It's a big day tomorrow!"
he enthuses, clapping his hands. He never seems to get tired – I wonder if he has some sort of
caffeine patch permanently inserted in his heart to keep him going like this. "Interviews!
Probably the most important part of the Games! That's where the audience can really get to know
you, so let's all get our beauty sleep so we look our best!"

23. "Wait," Andromache says sharply, pointing to the TV set against the far wall. It has been on
mute up till now, but I realize that they are about to announce the training scores.
Gemma and Orion both pull 9s. Martia gets an 8, but Rock gets a 10. I'll have to watch out for
him, because he didn't impress me overly much in training, which means he was hiding
something. Then a 4 and a 6 from District 3. My grinning face pops up accompanied by a 10.
Not bad at all. Calliope gets a 3, and she bolts for her room.
I sit through the rest of it, not really paying attention. A couple of kids get pretty good scores, so
I make mental note of them, but nothing to really worry about. It's the Careers I'll need to watch
my step around, especially because they're my allies.
When the broadcast is done, I depart for my room, Mags trailing me like a duckling following
her mother duck. By now used to this, I hold the door open without being prompted, snagging a
bowl of sugar cubes on my way inside so the dear old lady doesn't have to carry it in her frail
hands. We perch side by side on the bed, silently crunching the delicious treats.
I wait for Mags to say something, but she remains unusually quiet. Finally, she teeters upright,
gives my head a feather-light kiss, and leaves as silently as she came. I try to figure out if she's
giving me some sort of message, but I eventually decide that she's just trying to comfort me in
her own way. It can't be easy, having children in your care going off to be killed every year.
It strikes me all of a sudden how staggeringly unfair the Hunger Games are. I don't think it ever
really hit me before, because my life has been fairly peaceful up until now. But the Hunger
Games ruin lives – not just the tributes who have to throw away their lives each year, but the
victors too, because they have to come back each year and relive the experience over and over.
And that will be my fate, too, if I survive.
I briefly contemplate just killing myself now, ending the suffering before it begins. But I'm a
survivor, always have been, and I promised my family I'd do whatever it takes to come home. So
that's exactly what I'm going to do.
Chapter Seven
My prep team shows up the next morning and sets to work with a vengeance. When Germanicus
arrives at noon, they've styled my hair into dozens of thin spikes – apparently they're planning to
dress me like a sea anemone. He nods in approval and shows me my outfit – silky green shirt and
tailored black pants. That throws me for a second, mostly because of how normal the outfit is. I
had been expecting a purple bodysuit covered in golden spines or something equally insane.
"Thanks," I tell Germanicus as he helps me into the clothes, not that I need assistance. "These are
great."
"Now he shows appreciation," Germanicus scowls. Apparently he's still sore over my hiding his
fish hat during the opening ceremonies. I make sure to be extra charming with him, and by the
end of our session he's back to his usual pompous self.

24. Pompey arrives leading Mags, who is supposed to be teaching me how to conduct an interview
this afternoon. Since Calliope is off getting prettied up by the prep team, Mags and I take over
the sitting room for our meeting. She sits across from me at the big wooden table and peers at me
intently.
"I think we should just go with flirty," Mags opines, clasping her hands together. "You're very
good at it, and half the Capitol is already in love with you anyway."
She shows me how to position myself as if I were on a stage, pointing out where the cameras are
likely to be so I can make sure they catch me at the best possible angle. Not that I really have a
bad angle. Mags also unbuttons my shirt a little. "It doesn't hurt to give them what they want,"
she smirks.
Because I've already got the flirting and smiling and talking down pat, she instead walks me
through what kind of questions I might be asked. "Caesar Flickerman is very good about helping
out the tributes," she says, and I know from watching the Games myself that he's one of your
greatest assets onstage. "Keep your answers vague. If he asks you about a girlfriend, be
mysterious. You're trying to make yourself a sex symbol, that unattainable guy who every
woman dreams of being with. If you single out an object of your affection, you might lose them."
Having worked this much out myself, I nod. But then she drops a bombshell on me that I never
saw coming.
"What do you know of what happens to the victors after they win?" she asks me.
I shrug. "They come back to Capitol each year for the Games, don't they? Even if they aren't
mentoring, they still have to show. I assume they hang out and reminisce on old times."
"There is a good deal of that," Mags agrees. "But there's more. It started fifteen years ago. Do
you know Haymitch?"
His name rings a bell. District 12, winner of the Quarter Quell. He was pretty handsome, as I
recall. But since then he's turned to drink. He spends half the time falling over on screen, and has
become something of a laughing stock. I feel bad for the District 12 tributes, stuck with a mentor
like that.
"He was quite the looker in his day," Mags says. "It started with him. Capitol patrons used to
sponsor kids for various reasons, but when Haymitch won, President Snow got the brilliant idea
of having him thank each sponsor personally for their contribution."
I suspect she's trying to tell me something very important, but I'm just not getting it. It must have
something to do with the personal thanking, though, so I say, "Thank them how?"
Mags closes her eyes. "Think about how the Gamemakers were looking at you yesterday, and
then tell me."

25. I think back to the looks of half-crazed lust in some of the women's eyes. It hits me like a bolt of
lightning. "Are you saying that Snow started... what, selling Haymitch out to the Capitol patrons?
Like, as a..." I trail off, unable to vocalize my suspicions.
"As a sex slave," Mags says firmly.
I sink back in my seat. "Shit."
"There's more," she tells me. "Haymitch protested the treatment, and Snow had his family killed.
But once they were dead, Snow had nothing to hold over his head. What was Snow going to do –
put him in chains and force him to prostitute himself for those women? Haymitch, as a victor,
was a media darling, and Snow didn't want to let the general populace learn about his...
arrangements."
"So that's why Haymitch is drunk all the time," I realize. Then I figure out what Mags is really
trying to say. "If I win, I'm going to be just like that. Snow is going to sell my body, make me...
And if I don't cooperate, he'll kill my family. Why did you tell me?"
Mags looks suddenly weary, as if the stress of the situation is finally hitting her. "Because I truly
believe you can win. But I want you to know what you're setting yourself up for – the life you're
going to have to lead – if you survive."
I may only be fourteen, but I can imagine pretty well what will happen to me. I'll be untouchable
until I'm sixteen, of course, because I'm still a minor, but once I hit majority Snow will ever so
discretely hand me out to whoever he wants. And they'll do anything they want with me, and I'll
do anything they want in return, because if I don't Snow will kill Natare and father.
"I promised my family that I would come home to them, whatever the cost," I tell Mags, and she
nods. I wonder if father realized what he was really asking when he made me promise to come
home to them. Doubtful. He's never been to Capitol, so he couldn't possibly know the grisly truth
of the Hunger Games victors. But now I do, and I'm certainly not going to be the one to break it
to him. And I'm not going to let it stop me from winning.
"Let's worry about my life of prostitution after I win, alright?" I say lightly.
Mags smiles and hands me another sugar cube.
I wait offstage with Calliope and the Careers until we are beckoned on set. Sitting down, I gaze
out at the audience that spreads before me like a sea of blinking eyes and eager grins. I start to do
my smiling and winking routine, when Mags' dire prediction of my life past the Games hits me.
She couldn't allow me to verbally and visually prostitute myself before the Capitol during this
broadcast without me knowing that the physical version would have to follow.
Pushing aside these ugly thoughts, I settle into my old routine, making eye contact, smiling
mysteriously, on and on from one woman to the next. By the time Caesar Flickerman calls my

26. name, I'm pretty sure that I've already seduced a good percentage of the crowd. My interview
should take care of the rest.
Flickerman beckons me over, and I notice that his ever-changing hair and face are pale green this
year. He looks kind of sickly, but he's smiling, so I plaster a smirk on my face and saunter over
to him.
"Finnick Odair," he says, and the audience sighs. "You've made quite a splash at the Games this
year, and the main event hasn't even begun!" The audience laughs at his nautical pun. I chuckle,
and the audience falls silent as they let the sound wash over them. It astonishes me how easy
they are to manipulate. Or maybe I'm just really good at it.
I wink at the camera. "I can't wait till it does. I have a few tricks up my sleeve yet that might...
impress you." I let the word impress roll off my tongue, and every woman in the crowd who
hasn't fallen head over heels for me does so now.
Caesar chuckles, genuinely delighted by me. "Quite the charmer, eh, Finnick?"
I shrug, leaning back in my chair to give the ladies a proper view of me. "Let's just say there are
quite a few girls I've left broken-hearted back at home." I'm making this up, but for all I know it
might be true.
Caesar leans forward. "Anyone special?"
I smile mysteriously and keep my lips firmly sealed. Caesar roars with laughter. "Tell us about
yourself, Finnick," he prompts.
"I'm from District 4, so I've spent pretty much my entire life on my father's fishing boat. Every
morning I strip down and dive into the sea." I pause here to let the ladies picture this in their
heads. "It's amazing under water – a whole other world that you can never really visualize until
you've seen it yourself. Hundreds of rainbow coloured fish floating around you like a cloud,
coral shaped like anything you can imagine."
I paint a picture for them of life under the sea, and all of them – Caesar included – are hanging
off my every word. Finally my three minutes are drawing to a close, and Caesar puts his hand to
his ear for a second. I'm guessing there's a little speaker wedged in there, because he suddenly
says, "I hear you surprised the judges in your personal training session. What did you do,
exactly?"
In response, I stand and begin to remove my shirt so slowly that it's basically a strip-tease. When
it's off, I smirk and fling it into the crowd. They scramble after it, and a mini-riot breaks out.
Caesar looks a bit alarmed, but hides it well. The buzzer sounds, and the stage hands discretely
get me back to my seat before I bring the house down.

27. I watch the rest of the interviews with disinterest. It's the same as every year – some tributes are
funny, some nervous, others bloodthirsty. I'm not too surprised when Calliope breaks down
halfway through her interview and they have to escort her offstage.
Finally we are dismissed, and I head back to the fourth floor. Pompey is waiting for me, and
immediately begins gushing about how wonderful I was. He offers to let us watch the replay on
the TV, but I don't need to see it again. I head for my room, and Mags dutifully follows me with
her sugar cubes.
"You did well," she says. "They bought it."
I munch on a sugar cube thoughtfully. "What do you think will happen tomorrow?"
Mags assumes a thoughtful pose. "The cornucopia will be the hardest part. It's going to have a lot
of useful things you're going to want, but you're going to be fighting twenty-three other kids to
get them."
"I have the Careers," I remind her.
"Have you worked out how you're meeting up?"
"I think we're bluffing it."
She nods. "Try to make a beeline for one of them – whoever's closest. They'll have your back
while you both grab what you need. You could even shout to the others where to meet up – no
one outside your group is going to be suicidal enough to follow you."
"What about Calliope?"
Mags looks away uneasily. I don't blame her, because I know what she's thinking. "Keep her
with you if you can. But don't be surprised if she doesn't make it."
"That's what I was thinking," I agree. Then another, more pressing issue comes to mind. "When
do I ditch the Careers?"
"That will have to be up to you," Mags says. "When you can't trust them anymore. When it
would be more advantageous to split. When one of them tries to kill you. When you're the only
ones left. You'll have to play it by ear."
Not the clear answer I was looking for, but it will have to be good enough. "I should sleep," I tell
her. "Big day tomorrow." Mags smiles but doesn't move from the loveseat. I don't mind her
presence now, so I burrow under the blankets and shut my eyes, willing sleep to come.
After a few minutes, I hear movement, and then Mags is stroking my hair. I remember mother
doing this, back when I was little, before she died, and I relax enough to eventually fall asleep.

28. Chapter Eight
Mags is waiting for me the next morning, dozing on my couch. I wake her up, and she gives me
a hug and wishes me luck. She doesn't bother assuring me that I'll survive, because she honestly
thinks I have a fighting chance. Besides, nothing is assured, and Mags doesn't lie to me.
Germanicus is waiting for me outside, and after Pompey thumps me on the shoulder and tells me
to try my hardest, I followed my stylist up to the rooftop, where a hovercraft is waiting. The
immobilizing current prevents me from falling off the ladder that they use to haul me aboard, and
also stops me from flinching when they insert a tracker into my left forearm.
I try to look out the windows – if I thought the view from the train was spectacular, a bird's eye
view must be even better – but they black out the windows. Don't want me to get a sneak peek of
the arena.
We touch down and Germanicus leads me to the Launch Area. I take a shower, and he puts me
into the uniform that every tribute is going to be wearing. It's a thick two-piece affair, with a fur-
lined hood and big mittens. The whole thing is glaringly white. There's a black bodysuit
underneath, but even this is thicker than anything I've worn before.
Germanicus comments on the clothes as he helps me put them on. "Definitely going to be cold
there. Shame for you. I assume you were planning on taking off your shirt as soon as possible.
He's right, of course, but I can still see some possibilities with the suit's design. The hood won't
cover my face at all, and that's probably my best attribute. And the suit is thick, but it's still
tailored to my body. I can work with this, I think.
Then Germanicus deposits me on a golden disk at the far corner of the room. A glass tube seals
around me, and I barely have time to give him a wave before the platform shoots upward.
The first thing I notice is the light. It's so bright that I have to cover my eyes with my hands so
I'm not blinded. Claudius Templesmith, the announcer, booms out from some hidden speaker,
"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Sixty-fifth Hunger Games begin!"
My eyes adjust, and I realize it's so bright because the sunlight is reflecting off snow. We seem
to be in some sort of arctic tundra – everything is covered in a layer of white. The cornucopia is
ahead of me, glinting gold in the sun's harsh glare, and the tributes are ringed around it. I see that
Gemma is a few golden discs away, fidgeting in anticipation. We have to stay on the pressure
plates for one full minute or else they explode.
Over to the left I see trees, and to the right looks like hills. Behind me is more forest, and straight
ahead of me, a few hundred years behind the cornucopia, is a cliff that drops off into the
sparkling blue sea. So there is water, I think with a strange sense of relief, although not water I
can swim in. Still, that little bit of home focuses me and reminds me why I'm here. And what I
have to do.

29. There's a gunshot, and the Hunger Games have officially begun. I shout to Gemma, and she
angles toward me as we rush for the mass of items piled around the huge golden cornucopia. We
head for the best items, which are piled up against the giant horn itself, but Gemma picks up a
couple of knives along the way. As we run, I hold out my hand, and she hands me one without
hesitation.
I spot a set of spears, and I reach for them. Orion's warning shout reaches my ears just in time. I
spin around and sink my knife into the belly of a tiny kid – he looks like he's about eight. Then I
see the hatchet in his hand, and remember father's warning. They're all sharks, and I can't waste
time feeling sorry for them.
Orion joins us, and between the three of us we keep the other kids away long enough to grab
several big backpacks and as many weapons as we can carry. "Find the others!" Gemma shouts
at me, and I scan the area quickly. It's complete mayhem, kids scrambling to get weapons and
packs and attacking whoever gets in their way. I hear a scream, and see Calliope go down, a
sword hilt sticking out of her back. Even from this distance, I can see the tears frozen on her
cheeks.
It hits me then how cold it is. The rush of adrenaline must have masked the fact that this entire
place is freezing. Even with the suits, I feel the bite of the arctic wind. Then I spot Rock and
Martia on the other side of the cornucopia. They look a little worse for the wear, but they're alive
and they have packs and weapons slung over their shoulders. I shout for them to group up in the
woods, and we all race for the treeline.
We almost make it without a scratch, but some clever kid decides to even the odds right from the
beginning and leaps out from behind a bush. He slashes Martia right across the throat, and she
sinks to the ground with a pained gurgle. Red splashes across the snowy ground. Rock roars in
outrage and strangles the kid with his bare hands.
"He's dead," I say, nodding toward the trees. "Come on, we need to move."
When Rock keeps on squeezing, Orion and Gemma seize his arms, and between them they
detach his hands from the kid's neck. Rock shakes his head, regains control, and turns to Martia.
He grabs her stuff, gives me a nod, and at my command we race into the forest.
We keep going for about an hour, until we're sure that no one has followed us. Then Gemma
suggests we break for a few minutes and see what goodies we managed to pull from the
cornucopia. It looks pretty promising – each pack has a decent supply of food and water, as well
as a flint and steel. "We're going to have some cold nights," I predict, and Gemma nods in
agreement.
I see Orion and Rock exchange a covert glance, so quick that if I hadn't been looking for it I
would have missed it completely. Impossible to tell what they're planning, but right now Gemma
is the only one I can trust, however tentative that trust may be. I have no doubt now that Orion
and Rock will turn on me the second they think I've outlived my usefulness.

30. "At least water won't be a problem," Orion says after a while. "Snow." Yes, I think, we can melt
the snow, or just stuff it into our mouths. Water won't be a problem. But the cold will be, as well
as whatever wild animals and natural disasters the Gamemakers have wished up for us.
"We should seek high ground," Rock suggests. "Harder to be ambushed."
We all agree, so we spend the rest of the afternoon seeking out a suitable campsite. It's dusk
when we find a good place – a small hillock in the middle of the trees, easily defensible and with
a sturdy tree we can climb to get a view of the entire arena. Instead of suggesting that someone
should do this, I go ahead and scale the tree. At the top, I can see the whole arena, just as I
predicted. Its layout is basically what I'd already figured out, although I note that the hills
eventually turn into mountains. But they're too far away to be a viable target for the other tributes.
"No one that I can see," I report when I'm back on the ground. The backpacks also contained
bedrolls, and my companions have arranged them in a rough circle at the base of the tree. Rock is
gone, and Gemma informs me that he's looking for firewood.
While he's gone, the evening announcement comes. The Panem anthem plays, and then Claudius
Templesmith lists all the tributes who've died so far. There's nine in all, counting Calliope, and I
feel a brief pang at her death. So she wasn't plotting anything at all – she really was just a
terrified girl. I feel kind of bad now for telling her I would kill her if we met up in the arena, but I
doubt me acting any differently could have helped her survive in here.
"That leaves fifteen," Gemma says. "More than usual."
"I doubt all the packs had flint and steel," I say. "The cold night is going to claim at least a
couple of them, guaranteed."
As if the Gamemakers are listening to me, the temperature starts to drop as the sun goes down.
Rock returns with an armload of branches, and between the four of us we fashion an acceptable
campfire.
"Is this a good idea?" Gemma suddenly asks. "We're giving away our location."
"We're the Careers," I remind her. "No one is going to attack us."
"And if they do, whoever's on watch will slaughter them," Orion adds, cracking his knuckles in
anticipation. His scar looks even more gruesome in the flickering firelight. "I'll take first watch."
Not exactly comforted by this, I get into my sleeping bag. My head somehow ends up next to
Gemma's – I think she may have planned it this way. "Don't worry," she dimples at me. "His
bark's about the same as his bite."
I arch my eyebrows at her. "That's supposed to comfort me?"
Gemma gives me a slow smile. "If my words don't, maybe my body can."

31. That's an invitation if I've ever heard one. But I'm here to win, not get it on with Gemma,
regardless of how attractive she is. And she's very cute. Then it occurs to me that she might have
been counting on us becoming an item – I could do irreparable damage if I reject her outright. "I
bet it can," I murmur suggestively. "But Orion has his eye on you."
"Screw Orion," she whispers. But she gets the point. The others probably wouldn't appreciate us
making out in front of them. So Gemma bats her eyelashes at me and says, "Sweet dreams,
Finnick."
I wink at her and turn away. Girls make things so complicated. The thought of Rock hovering
over me, clutching a flail and hoping someone will come along that he can swing it at, isn't
exactly comforting, but I'm exhausted enough that sleep comes quickly.
Chapter Nine
I have the last shift, so I get to watch the sun rise. It's beautiful, but the most remarkable part is
that it looks exactly the same as the sun Natare and I used to watch rise from the deck of our
fishing boat. Obviously I know it's the same sun in the sky, but it somehow makes me feel less
alone.
After a few hours I wake Gemma, Orion, and Rock, keeping the fire stoked in the interim. Once
they're up and about, we sit down to discuss important matters, like how we're going to track
down and kill the other tributes. It had completely escaped me until this moment that the point of
Careers, after all, is to kill as many people as possible. I decided to suck it up and deal with it. If
I have to kill someone to stay in the group, then that's what I'll do. No sympathy for the sharks.
Orion turns out to be a good tracker, so we follow him as he leads us through the woods. We
bring all our gear with us, because we don't have the manpower to leave someone behind to
defend our campsite.
Around midday, Orion gets a big smile on his face. He puts a finger to his lips and beckons us
forward. We run silently through the trees for about five minutes, and then he holds up a hand.
He makes a circle motion with his finger, which I interpret as a command to surround the area.
Gemma and I head right, while Rock goes left.
When I'm in position behind a snow-covered bush, clutching a spear in one hand and a long
knife in the other, I survey the area we've effectively turned into a kill zone. Two girls – one
older, one younger – are sleeping on the ground, huddled together for warmth. They clearly
didn't get a pack with a flint and steel in it, because they have a pile of twigs beside them that
they obviously tried and failed at turning into a campfire.
Orion lets out a battle cry and charges into the clearing. I don't bother following, appointing
myself watchman in case the sounds of fighting attract anyone. This isn't a problem – my three
companions are more than happy to pick up the slack. Orion stomps down on the younger girl's
head with his thick boot, and blood sprays out. Rock swings his flail into the older girl's shoulder,

32. who is halfway onto her feet by this point, and Gemma flings a dagger into her chest that topples
her back to the ground.
As the boys hoot and holler, Gemma glances at me. "All clear," I call, now entering the clearing.
Two cannons boom in the distance, indicating that the girls' hearts have stopped beating.
This gets Rock's attention. He didn't realize that I hadn't participated in the attack until just now.
"Not afraid to get your hands dirty, are you, pretty boy?"
I respond by dipping my hands into one of the blood pools. I draw two streaks across each of my
cheeks. Rock's eyes widen. "I thought it might be a good idea to make sure no one decides to
sneak up and stab us in the back while we murder two sleeping girls," I snarl, getting all up in his
face. "Got a problem with that?"
Rock glances at the red streaks on my face, and then says, "No. No problem." But there's hate in
his eyes, and I really have to watch my step now.
Gemma comes over and wipes the blood off my face. "My war paint," I protest, laughing.
She grins and says, "Your face is too handsome to be marred by anything."
"Marred? Good word." Gemma laughs and hugs me, which of course has Orion glaring at me
again. I discretely extract myself from her grasp and go to examine the dead girls' belongings.
"Nothing," I proclaim. "Let's move out."
As soon as we've left the clearing, we hear a hovercraft swoop down to carry away the tributes'
corpses. Goodbye, I say silently. Sorry we had to kill you. But I don't feel guilty, because this is
the Hunger Games, and I have to do whatever takes to win.
We track down two more tributes that day, both of them hiding in the woods. One puts up a
decent fight – I end up taking him down at distance with a spear. The other cowers and ends up
being strangled by Rock. I'm starting to suspect that his sheer strength won him that 10 in
training. It doesn't surprise me – his muscles are gigantic.
Night falls, and I realize that no one did die last night of exposure, because Templesmith didn't
announce any names this morning. But as we build the campfire Gemma says, "It's colder
tonight." So that's the Gamemakers' plan – the longer the game takes, the colder it gets, and the
faster we die off.
As we sit around the fire, warm and content, a silver parachute suddenly floats down out of the
sky. We look at each other in confusion, because our mentors are in charge of turning donations
from Capitol citizens into gifts for us in the arena, and we aren't exactly badly off. Probably the
best off out of all the kids here. So why the gift?

33. It floats down closest to me, so I shrug and open it up. Inside is a tureen of hot clam chowder,
complete with ceramic bowls and spoons. A steaming loaf of bread is perched on top of the
bowls. "Wow," Gemma breathes, and I silently echo the sentiment.
As we dig in, I try to figure out who sent this, and why. The others probably won't notice the
significance, but clam chowder? Seafood? This must be meant for me. And if Mags can afford to
send me such an extravagant gift that I have absolutely no need for, the donations must be
pouring in.
I glance up at the sky, where there must be a camera hidden somewhere, and give a slow,
seductive smile. Then I go back to eating the stew, except I make sure I lounge in a way that
keeps my face visible at all times, and I slid my lips against the spoon each time I take a sip in a
sensuous manner. Eat your hearts out, I silently taunt the people of Capitol, and I'm sure that the
sales of clam chowder in Capitol have just skyrocketed.
The next day we start out on the hunt again, but first we listen to the morning announcements.
Claudius Templesmith lists off the one kid that died during the night, which, counting our four
kills yesterday, leaves ten kids alive – so six others beside us. Two days in and we're down to ten
– the Gamemakers aren't playing around this year. But that means that the ten of us left are pretty
good at playing the game, so things should be trickier from now on.
Gemma picks up on my revelation, because she says, "We need to be careful."
"It's only going to get colder and harder from here," Rock agrees, caressing his flail almost
lovingly. I remember that kid who went nuts and started cannibalizing the other tributes, and
hope that Rock doesn't turn out the same way.
By mid-afternoon we haven't found anyone, so we end up setting up camp early and have a
strategy session as the air cools around us. It really is getting colder – anyone who survived the
last two nights through sheer willpower is going to eat it tonight. Again, Gemma follows my
thoughts with worrying accuracy. "We have fire. It could be tempting to someone who doesn't."
We decide to sleep in shifts of two people, just in case. It turns out to be a good idea, because
halfway through the night, Rock and I hear something rumbling ominously in the distance. It's a
lot easier to wake up one person than three, and we have our stuff together in a few minutes. But
the rumbling is growing louder, and we're getting worried.
Gemma, who is turning out to be surprisingly clever, figures it out first. "Avalanche," she says.
Our eyes snap towards the mountains. Sure enough, a wall of white is coming toward us. Our
wanderings brought us to the edge of the forest, and I figure that trees will probably slow down
the snow, so I bolt for the trees and shout for them to follow.
The next half hour is insanity. Gemma sticks by me, and we get separated from Orion and Rock
almost immediately. The ground is trembling as the snow wave approaches, and animals I hadn't
even realized were in the forest rush past as we stumble through the trees. It's still the early hours
of the morning, which makes it even worse because the sun isn't up yet and it's very hard to see.

34. The avalanche is getting closer, and we aren't moving fast enough. Regretting every word, I
shout to Gemma, "Ditch the packs!" She nods, and slices through the straps. I follow suit, and we
are able to gain some valuable ground.
Finally, the rumbling fades and the snow settles. Gemma and I collapse to the frozen ground,
clutching our chests and panting desperately. After a few minutes I recover enough to take stock
of our surroundings. We're on a small rise, still surrounded by trees, and our packs are long gone.
Gemma managed to keep her brace of knives, and I still have three spears strapped to my back. I
wordlessly hand her a spear, and she gives me two knives in return.
"Should we try to find Orion and Rock?" she asks me.
"Didn't you see them whispering together?" I say. "They were going to turn on us soon. Or on
me, anyway. You can go find them, but I'm going to go it alone. Or with you, if you want."
Gemma's face transforms from sullen to dazzling. She throws herself at me, and we tumble into a
snow drift. I take that to mean she's going to stay with me.
The morning sun peeks over the treeline, and we gradually put ourselves back together.
Templesmith announces that two more have died in the avalanche, although it's not Orion or
Rock. That leaves eight. We head back toward the avalanche, hoping to spot our packs, but after
two hours of sifting through the snow we give it up as hopeless. Gemma suggests that we try to
find some food, which I agree with, and we spend the next few hours trying and failing to stalk
and kill a deer.
"This is impossible!" Gemma finally shouts, throwing the knife she's clutching to the ground. I
clap my hand over her mouth, but it's too late. The deer, frozen just at the edge of our sight,
scampers off into the woods.
She winces and picks up the knife. "Sorry."
"It's alright," I sigh, scanning the area for any signs of life. I spot a frozen berry bush I recognize
from the edible foods station, but it's the dead of winter and there's nothing growing on the
branches now.
My stomach rumbles, and Gemma's stomach soon begins to harmonize with mine. "This sucks,"
she grumbles. "One of the perks of being a Career is we aren't supposed to have to starve like
everyone else."
I get a brainwave. Peeling back my hood – not smart, considering how cold it is, but I need this
to work – I stare up at the sky with my most haunted, mournful expression and clutch my
stomach. Seconds later, a silver parachute floats out of the sky and lands at my feet. Gemma
gasps behind me and rushes over to open it. It's another tureen, this time filled with fish fry like
father makes back home.