“What about my family?” I say. “Will they punish them?”

“Don’t think so. Wouldn’t make much sense. See they’d

have to reveal what happened in the Training Center for it to

have any worthwhile effect on the population. People would

need to know what you did. But they can’t since it’s secret, so

it’d be a waste of effort,” says Haymitch. “More likely they’ll

make your life hell in the arena.”

“Well, they’ve already promised to do that to us any way,”

says Peeta.

“Very true,” says Haymitch. And I realize the impossible has

happened. They have actually cheered me up. Haymitch picks

up a pork chop with his fingers, which makes Effie frown, and

dunks it in his wine. He rips off a hunk of meat and starts to

chuckle. “What were their faces like?”

I can feel the edges of my mouth tilting up. “Shocked. Terrified.

Uh, ridiculous, some of them.” An image pops into my

mind. “One man tripped backward into a bowl of punch.”

Haymitch guffaws and we all start laughing except Effie, 

although even she is suppressing a smile. “Well, it serves them

right. It’s their job to pay attention to you. And just because

you come from District Twelve is no excuse to ignore you.”

Then her eyes dart around as if she’s said something totally

outrageous. “I’m sorry, but that’s what I think,” she says to no

one in particular.

“I’ll get a very bad score,” I say.

“Scores only matter if they’re very good, no one pays much

attention to the bad or mediocre ones. For all they know, you

could be hiding your talents to get a low score on purpose.

People use that strategy,” said Portia.

“I hope that’s how people interpret the four I’ll probably

get,” says Peeta. “If that. Really, is anything less impressive

than watching a person pick up a heavy ball and throw it a

couple of yards. One almost landed on my foot.” I grin at him 

and realize that I’m starving. I cut off a piece of pork, dunk it 

in mashed potatoes, and start eating. It’s okay. My family is 

safe. And if they are safe, no real harm has been done.

After dinner, we go to sitting room to watch the scores 

announced on television. First they show a photo of the tribute,

then flash their score below it. The Career Tributes naturally

get in the eight-to-ten range. Most of the other players average

a five. Surprisingly, little Rue comes up with a seven. I

don’t know what she showed the judges, but she’s so tiny it

must have been impressive.

District 12 comes up last, as usual. Peeta pulls an eight so at

least a couple of the Gamemakers must have been watching

him. I dig my fingernails into my palms as my face comes up,

expecting the worst. Then they’re flashing the number eleven

on the screen.

Eleven!

Effie Trinket lets out a squeal, and everybody is slapping

me on the back and cheering and congratulating me. But it

doesn’t seem real.

“There must be a mistake. How . . . how could that happen?”

I ask Haymitch.

“Guess they liked your temper,” he says. “They’ve got a

show to put on. They need some players with some heat.”

“Katniss, the girl who was on fire,” says Cinna and gives me

a hug. “Oh, wait until you see your interview dress.” 

“More flames?” I ask. “Of a sort,” he says mischievously.

Peeta and I congratulate each other, another awkward

moment. We’ve both done well, but what does that mean for

the other? I escape to my room as quickly as possible and 

burrow down under the covers. The stress of the day, 

particularly the crying, has worn me out. I drift off, reprieved, 

relieved, and with the number eleven still flashing behind my 

eyelids. At dawn, I lie in bed for a while, watching the sun come 

up on a beautiful morning. It’s Sunday. A day off at home. I 

wonder if Gale is in the woods yet. Usually we devote all of 

Sunday to stocking up for the week. Rising early, hunting and 

gathering, then trading at the Hob. I think of Gale without me. 

Both of us can hunt alone, but we’re better as a pair. Particularly 

if we’re trying for bigger game. But also in the littler things, 

having a partner lightened the load, could even make the arduous 

task of filling my family’s table enjoyable.

I had been struggling along on my own for about six months 

when I first ran into Gale in the woods. It was a Sunday in 

October, the air cool and pungent with dying things. I’d spent 

the morning competing with the squirrels for nuts and the slightly 

warmer afternoon wading in shallow ponds harvesting katniss. 

The only meat I’d shot was a squirrel that had practically run over 

my toes in its quest for acorns, but the animals would still be 

afoot when the snow buried my other food sources. Having strayed 

farther afield than usual, I was hurrying back home, lugging my 

burlap sacks when I came across a dead rabbit. It was hanging by 

its neck in a thin wire a foot above my head. About fifteen yards 

away was another. I recognized the twitch-up snares because my 

father had used them. When the prey is caught, it’s yanked into 

the air out of the reach of other hungry animals. I’d been trying 

to use snares all summer with no success, so I couldn’t help 

dropping my sacks to examine this one.