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The Hunger Games
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
is
n'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
barbed-wire
loops
.
In
theory
,
it
's
supposed
to
be
electrified
twenty-four
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
.
