Suzanne Collins - The Hunger Games

PART I

"THETRIBUTES"

When I wake up, the other side of thebed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prims warmth but finding only therough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed inwith our mother. Of course, she did. This is the day of the reaping.

I prop myself up on one elbow. Theresenough light in th e bedroom to see them. My little sister,Prim, curled up on her side, cocooned in my mothers body, their cheeks pressedtogether. In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not so beaten-down.Prims face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely as the primrose for which shewas named. My mother was very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me.

Sitting at Prims knees, guarding her,is the worlds ugliest cat. Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes thecolor of rotting squash. Prim named him Buttercup, insisting that his muddyyellow 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 drownhim in a bucket when Prim brought him home. Scrawny kitten, belly swollen withworms, 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 hes a born mouser. Even catches the occasionalrat. Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Buttercup the entrails. He hasstopped hissing at me.

Entrails. No hissing. This is theclosest we will ever come to love.

I swing my legs off the bed and slideinto my hunting boots. Supple leather that has molded to my feet. I pull ontrousers, a shirt, tuck my long dark braid up into a cap, and grab my foragebag. On the table, under a wooden bowl to protect it from hungry rats and catsalike, sits a perfect little goat cheese wrapped in basil leaves. Prims giftto me on reaping day. I put the cheese carefully in my pocket as I slip outside.

Our part of District 12, nicknamed theSeam, is usually crawling with coal miners heading out to the morning shift atthis hour. Men and women with hunched shoulders, swollen knuckles, many whohave long since stopped trying to scrub the coal dust out of their brokennails, the lines of their sunken faces. But today the black cinder streets areempty. Shutters on the squat gray houses are closed. The reaping isnt untiltwo. May as well sleep in. If you can.

Our house is almost at the edge of theSeam. 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, isa high chain-link fence topped with barbed-wire loops. In theory, its supposedto be electrified twenty-four hours a day as a deterrent to the predators thatlive in the woods packs of wild dogs, lone cougars, bears that used tothreaten our streets. But since were lucky to get two or three hours ofelectricity in the evenings, its usually safe to touch. Even so, I always takea moment to listen carefully for the hum that means the fence is live. Rightnow, its silent as a stone. Concealed by a clump of bushes, I flatten out onmy belly and slide under a two-foot stretch thats been loose for years. Thereare several other weak spots in the fence, but this one is so close to home Ialmost always enter the woods here.

As soon as Im in the trees, I retrievea bow and sheath of arrows from a hollow log. Electrified or not, the fence hasbeen successful at keeping the flesh-eaters out of District 12. Inside the woodsthey roam freely, and there are added concerns like venomous snakes, rabidanimals, and no real paths to follow. But theres also food if you know how tofind it. My father knew and he taught me some before he was blown to bits in amine explosion. There was nothing even to bury. I was eleven then. Five yearslater, I still wake up screaming for him to run.

Even though trespassing in the woods isillegal and poaching carries the severest of penalties, more people would riskit if they had weapons. But most are not bold enough to venture out with just aknife. My bow is a rarity, crafted by my father along with a few others that Ikeep well hidden in the woods, carefully wrapped in waterproof covers. Myfather could have made good money selling them, but if the officials found outhe would have been publicly executed for inciting a rebellion. Most of thePeacekeepers turn a blind eye to the few of us who hunt because theyre ashungry for fresh meat as anybody is. In fact, theyre 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 sneakinto the woods to harvest apples. But always in sight of the Meadow. Alwaysclose enough to run back to the safety of District 12 if trouble arises. DistrictTwelve. Where you can starve to death in safety, I mutter. Then I glancequickly over my shoulder. Even here, even in the middle of nowhere, you worrysomeone might overhear you.

When I was younger, I scared my motherto death, the things I would blurt out about District 12, about the people whorule our country, Panem, from the far-off city called the Capitol. Eventually Iunderstood this would only lead us to more trouble. So I learned to hold mytongue and to turn my features into an indifferent mask so that no one couldever read my thoughts. Do my work quietly in school. Make only polite smalltalk in the public market. Discuss little more than trades in the Hob, which isthe black market where I make most of my money. Even at home, where I am lesspleasant, I avoid discussing tricky topics. Like the reaping, or food shortages,or the Hunger Games. Prim might begin to repeat my words and then where wouldwe be?

In the woods waits the only person withwhom I can be myself. Gale. I can feel the muscles in my face relaxing, my pacequickening as I climb the hills to our place, a rock ledge overlooking avalley. A thicket of berry bushes protects it from unwanted eyes. The sight ofhim waiting there brings on a smile. Gale says I never smile except in thewoods.

Hey, Catnip, says Gale. My real nameis Katniss, but when I first told him, I had barely whispered it. So he thoughtId said Catnip. Then when this crazy lynx started following me around thewoods looking for handouts, it became his official nickname for me. I finallyhad to kill the lynx because he scared off game. I almost regretted it becausehe wasnt bad company. But I got a decent price for his pelt.

Look what I shot, Gale holds up a loafof bread with an arrow stuck in it, and I laugh. Its real bakery bread, notthe flat, dense loaves we make from our grain rations. I take it in my hands,pull out the arrow, and hold the puncture in the crust to my nose, inhaling thefragrance that makes my mouth flood with saliva. Fine bread like this is forspecial occasions.

Mm, still warm, I say. He must havebeen at the bakery at the crack of dawn to trade for it. What did it cost you?

Just a squirrel. Think the old man wasfeeling sentimental this morning, says Gale. Even wished me luck.

Well, we all feel a little closertoday, dont we? I say, not even bothering to roll my eyes. Prim left us acheese. I pull it out.

His expression brightens at the treat. Thankyou, Prim. Well have a real feast. Suddenly he falls into a Capitol accent ashe mimics Effie Trinket, the maniacally upbeat woman who arrives once a year toread out the names at the leaping. I almost forgot! Happy Hunger Games! Heplucks a few blackberries from the bushes around us. And may the odds He tossesa berry in a high arc toward me.

I catch it in my mouth and break thedelicate skin with my teeth. The sweet tartness explodes across my tongue. be ever in your favor! I finish with equalverve. We have to joke about it because the alternative is to be scared out ofyour wits. Besides, the Capitol accent is so affected, almost anything soundsfunny in it.