District 12 is a decrepit cage of gray houses and empty faces. People don’t smile on Reaping Day. Fear lingers in every corner, a slow poison seeping into every alley and every averted glance.

He slips under the electrified fence—a barrier that almost never works—and escapes into the woods. Here, for a few minutes, he can pretend the Capitol doesn’t exist. Beside him is Lenore Dove, the girl with gray eyes and a voice that makes mockingjays sing. He looks at her and thinks of all that could’ve been, if only he’d been born elsewhere, in another time.

—We shouldn’t be here today —she says softly.

Haymitch shrugs.

—If they’re going to kill us, I at least want one good memory first.

But happy memories don’t shield against fate. When the clock strikes noon, the crowd gathers in the square. Peacekeepers stand guard with rifles ready, making sure no one runs. Drusilla Sickle, with her artificially stretched face and garish yellow uniform, smiles as she stirs the papers in the bowl. She lingers on purpose, savoring the moment.

People barely breathe.

Drusilla’s hand plunges into the bowl. She stirs the names. Pulls out a slip of paper.