“Well, bravo!” gushes Effie Trinket. “That’s the spirit of the

Games!” She’s pleased to finally have a district with a little action

going on in it. “What’s your name?”

I swallow hard. “Katniss Everdeen,” I say.

“I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don’t want her to

steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let’s give a big

round of applause to our newest tribute!” trills Effie Trinket.

To the everlasting credit of the people of District 12, not

one person claps. Not even the ones holding betting slips, the

ones who are usually beyond caring. Possibly because they

know me from the Hob, or knew my father, or have encountered

Prim, who no one can help loving. So instead of acknowledging

applause, I stand there unmoving while they

take part in the boldest form of dissent they can manage. Silence.

Which says we do not agree. We do not condone. All of

this is wrong.

Then something unexpected happens. At least, I don’t expect

it because I don’t think of District 12 as a place that cares

about me. But a shift has occurred since I stepped up to take

Prim’s place, and now it seems I have become someone precious.

At first one, then another, then almost every member of

the crowd touches the three middle fingers of their left hand

to their lips and holds it out to me. It is an old and rarely used

gesture of our district, occasionally seen at funerals. It means

thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone

you love.

Now I am truly in danger of crying, but fortunately Haymitch

chooses this time to come staggering across the stage to

congratulate me. “Look at her. Look at this one!” he hollers,

throwing an arm around my shoulders. He’s surprisingly

strong for such a wreck. “I like her!” His breath reeks of liquor

and it’s been a long time since he’s bathed. “Lots of . . . “ He

can’t think of the word for a while. “Spunk!” he says 

triumphantly. “More than you!” he releases me and starts for the

front of the stage. “More than you!” he shouts, pointing directly

into a camera.

Is he addressing the audience or is he so drunk he might actually

be taunting the Capitol? I’ll never know because just as

he’s opening his mouth to continue, Haymitch plummets off

the stage and knocks himself unconscious.

He’s disgusting, but I’m grateful. With every camera gleefully

trained on him, I have just enough time to release the small,

choked sound in my throat and compose myself. I put my

hands behind my back and stare into the distance.

I can see the hills I climbed this morning with Gale. For a

moment, I yearn for something . . . the idea of us leaving the

district . . . making our way in the woods . . . but I know I was

right about not running off. Because who else would have 

volunteered for Prim?

Haymitch is whisked away on a stretcher, and Effie Trinket

is trying to get the ball rolling again. “What an exciting day!”

she warbles as she attempts to straighten her wig, which has

listed severely to the right. “But more excitement to come! It’s

time to choose our boy tribute!” Clearly hoping to contain her

tenuous hair situation, she plants one hand on her head as she

crosses to the ball that contains the boys’ names and grabs the

first slip she encounters. She zips back to the podium, and I

don’t even have time to wish for Gale’s safety when she’s reading

the name.