When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers

stretch out, seeking Prim’s warmth but finding only the

rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad

dreams and climbed in with our mother. Of course, she did.

This is the day of the reaping.

I prop myself up on one elbow. There’s enough light in the

bedroom to see them. My little sister, Prim, curled up on her

side, cocooned in my mother’s body, their cheeks pressed together. 

In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not

so beaten-down. Prim’s face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely

as the primrose for which she was named. My mother was

very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me.

Sitting at Prim’s knees, guarding her, is the world’s ugliest

cat. Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of

rotting squash. Prim named him Buttercup, insisting that his

muddy yellow coat matched the bright flower. He hates me.

Or at least distrusts me. Even though it was years ago, I think

he still remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket when

Prim brought him home. Scrawny kitten, belly swollen with

worms, crawling with fleas. The last thing I needed was

another mouth to feed. But Prim begged so hard, cried even, I

had to let him stay. It turned out okay. My mother got rid of

the vermin and he’s a born mouser. Even catches the occasional

rat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the

entrails. He has stopped hissing at me.

Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to

love.

I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my hunting boots.

Supple leather that has molded to my feet. I pull on trousers, a

shirt, tuck my long dark braid up into a cap, and grab my forage

bag. On the table, under a wooden bowl to protect it from

hungry rats and cats alike, sits a perfect little goat cheese

wrapped in basil leaves. Prim’s gift to me on reaping day. I put

the cheese carefully in my pocket as I slip outside.

Our part of District 12, nicknamed the Seam, is usually

crawling with coal miners heading out to the morning shift at

this hour. Men and women with hunched shoulders, swollen

knuckles, many who have long since stopped trying to scrub

the coal dust out of their broken nails, the lines of their sunken

faces. But today the black cinder streets are empty. Shutters

on the squat gray houses are closed. The reaping isn’t until

two. May as well sleep in. If you can.

Our house is almost at the edge of the Seam. I only have to

pass a few gates to reach the scruffy field called the Meadow.

Separating the Meadow from the woods, in fact enclosing all

of District 12, is a high chain-link fence topped with barbedwire

loops. In theory, it’s supposed to be electrified twentyfour

hours a day as a deterrent to the predators that live in the

woods — packs of wild dogs, lone cougars, bears — that used

to threaten our streets. But since we’re lucky to get two or

three hours of electricity in the evenings, it’s usually safe to

touch. Even so, I always take a moment to listen carefully for

the hum that means the fence is live. Right now, it’s silent as a

stone. Concealed by a clump of bushes, I flatten out on my belly

and slide under a two-foot stretch that’s been loose for

years. There are several other weak spots in the fence, but this

one is so close to home I almost always enter the woods here.

As soon as I’m in the trees, I retrieve a bow and sheath of

arrows from a hollow log. Electrified or not, the fence has

been successful at keeping the flesh-eaters out of District 12.

Inside the woods they roam freely, and there are added concerns

like venomous snakes, rabid animals, and no real paths

to follow. But there’s also food if you know how to find it. My

father knew and he taught me some before he was blown to

bits in a mine explosion. There was nothing even to bury. I

was eleven then. Five years later, I still wake up screaming for

him to run.

Even though trespassing in the woods is illegal and poaching

carries the severest of penalties, more people would risk it

if they had weapons. But most are not bold enough to venture

out with just a knife. My bow is a rarity, crafted by my father

along with a few others that I keep well hidden in the woods,

carefully wrapped in waterproof covers. My father could have

made good money selling them, but if the officials found out

he would have been publicly executed for inciting a rebellion.

Most of the Peacekeepers turn a blind eye to the few of us who

hunt because they’re as hungry for fresh meat as anybody is.

In fact, they’re among our best customers. But the idea that

someone might be arming the Seam would never have been

allowed.

In the fall, a few brave souls sneak into the woods to harvest

apples. But always in sight of the Meadow. Always close

enough to run back to the safety of District 12 if trouble arises.

“District Twelve. Where you can starve to death in safety,” I

mutter. Then I glance quickly over my shoulder. Even here,

even in the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might

overhear you.

When I was younger, I scared my mother to death, the

things I would blurt out about District 12, about the people

who rule our country, Panem, from the far-off city called the

Capitol. Eventually I understood this would only lead us to

more trouble.