“Forget it,” he snaps back.

The conversation feels all wrong. Leave? How could I leave

Prim, who is the only person in the world I’m certain I love?

And Gale is devoted to his family. We can’t leave, so why bother

talking about it? And even if we did . . . even if we did . . .

where did this stuff about having kids come from? There’s

never been anything romantic between Gale and me. When we

met, I was a skinny twelve-year-old, and although he was only

two years older, he already looked like a man. It took a long

time for us to even become friends, to stop haggling over

every trade and begin helping each other out.

Besides, if he wants kids, Gale won’t have any trouble finding

a wife. He’s good-looking, he’s strong enough to handle the

work in the mines, and he can hunt. You can tell by the way

the girls whisper about him when he walks by in school that

they want him. It makes me jealous but not for the reason

people would think. Good hunting partners are hard to find.

“What do you want to do?” I ask. We can hunt, fish, or gather.

“Let’s fish at the lake. We can leave our poles and gather in

the woods. Get something nice for tonight,” he says.

Tonight. After the reaping, everyone is supposed to celebrate.

And a lot of people do, out of relief that their children

have been spared for another year. But at least two families

will pull their shutters, lock their doors, and try to figure out

how they will survive the painful weeks to come.

We make out well. The predators ignore us on a day when

easier, tastier prey abounds. By late morning, we have a dozen

fish, a bag of greens and, best of all, a gallon of strawberries. I

found the patch a few years ago, but Gale had the idea to

string mesh nets around it to keep out the animals.

On the way home, we swing by the Hob, the black market

that operates in an abandoned warehouse that once held coal.

When they came up with a more efficient system that transported

the coal directly from the mines to the trains, the Hob

gradually took over the space. Most businesses are closed by

this time on reaping day, but the black market’s still fairly

busy. We easily trade six of the fish for good bread, the other

two for salt. Greasy Sae, the bony old woman who sells bowls

of hot soup from a large kettle, takes half the greens off our

hands in exchange for a couple of chunks of paraffin. We

might do a tad better elsewhere, but we make an effort to

keep on good terms with Greasy Sae. She’s the only one who

can consistently be counted on to buy wild dog. We don’t hunt

them on purpose, but if you’re attacked and you take out a dog

or two, well, meat is meat. “Once it’s in the soup, I’ll call it

beef,” Greasy Sae says with a wink. No one in the Seam would

turn up their nose at a good leg of wild dog, but the Peacekeepers

who come to the Hob can afford to be a little choosier.

When we finish our business at the market, we go to the

back door of the mayor’s house to sell half the strawberries,

knowing he has a particular fondness for them and can afford

our price. The mayor’s daughter, Madge, opens the door. She’s

in my year at school. Being the mayor’s daughter, you’d expect

her to be a snob, but she’s all right. She just keeps to herself.

Like me. Since neither of us really has a group of friends, we

seem to end up together a lot at school. Eating lunch, sitting

next to each other at assemblies, partnering for sports activities.

We rarely talk, which suits us both just fine.

Today her drab school outfit has been replaced by an expensive

white dress, and her blonde hair is done up with a

pink ribbon. Reaping clothes.

“Pretty dress,” says Gale.

Madge shoots him a look, trying to see if it’s a genuine

compliment or if he’s just being ironic. It is a pretty dress, but

she would never be wearing it ordinarily. She presses her lips

together and then smiles. “Well, if I end up going to the Capitol,

I want to look nice, don’t I?”

Now it’s Gale’s turn to be confused. Does she mean it? Or is

she messing with him? I’m guessing the second.

“You won’t be going to the Capitol,” says Gale coolly. His

eyes land on a small, circular pin that adorns her dress. Real

gold. Beautifully crafted. It could keep a family in bread for

months. “What can you have? Five entries? I had six when I

was just twelve years old.”

“That’s not her fault,” I say.

“No, it’s no one’s fault. Just the way it is,” says Gale. Madge’s

face has become closed off. She puts the money for the berries

in my hand. “Good luck, Katniss.” “You, too,” I say, and the

door closes.

We walk toward the Seam in silence. I don’t like that Gale

took a dig at Madge, but he’s right, of course. The reaping system

is unfair, with the poor getting the worst of it. You become

eligible for the reaping the day you turn twelve. That

year, your name is entered once. At thirteen, twice. And so on

and so on until you reach the age of eighteen, the final year of

eligibility, when your name goes into the pool seven times.

That’s true for every citizen in all twelve districts in the entire

country of Panem.

But here’s the catch. Say you are poor and starving as we

were. You can opt to add your name more times in exchange

for tesserae. Each tessera is worth a meager year’s supply of

grain and oil for one person. You may do this for each of your

family members as well. So, at the age of twelve, I had my

name entered four times. Once, because I had to, and three

times for tesserae for grain and oil for myself, Prim, and my

mother. In fact, every year I have needed to do this. And the

entries are cumulative. So now, at the age of sixteen, my name

will be in the reaping twenty times.