Magnetism

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. I le 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. 4 | Page The Hunger Games – Suzanne Collins 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 isn’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 flesheaters 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.

Even though trespassing in the woods is illegal and

poaching carries the severest of penalties, more

people would risk it if they had weapons. But most

are not bold enough to venture out with just a knife.

My bow is a rarity, crafted by my father along with a

few others that I keep well hidden in the woods,

carefully wrapped in waterproof covers. My father

could have made good money selling them, but if the

officials found out he would have been publicly

executed for inciting a rebellion. Most of the

Peacekeepers turn a blind eye to the few of us who

hunt because they’re as hungry for fresh meat as

anybody is. In fact, they’re 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 sneak into the woods to

harvest apples. But always in sight of the Meadow.

Always close enough to run back to the safety of

District 12 if trouble arises.“District Twelve. Where

you can starve to death in safety,” I mutter. Then I

glance quickly over my shoulder. Even here, even in

the middle of nowhere, you worry someone might

overhear you.

When I was younger, I scared my mother to death,

the things I would blurt out about District 12, about

6 | Page The Hunger Games – Suzanne Collins

the people who rule our country, Panem, from the faroff city called the Capitol. Eventually I understood

this would only lead us to more trouble. So I learned

to hold my tongue and to turn my features into an

indifferent mask so that no one could ever read my

thoughts. Do my work quietly in school. Make only

polite small talk in the public market. Discuss little

more than trades in the Hob, which is the black

market where I make most of my money. Even at

home, where I am less pleasant, 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 would we be?

In the woods waits the only person with whom I can

be myself. Gale. I can feel the muscles in my face

relaxing, my pace quickening as I climb the hills to

our place, a rock ledge overlooking a valley. A thicket

of berry bushes protects it from unwanted eyes. The

sight of him waiting there brings on a smile. Gale

says I never smile except in the woods.

“Hey, Catnip,” says Gale. My real name is Katniss,

but when I first told him, I had barely whispered it.

So he thought I’d said Catnip. Then when this crazy

lynx started following me around the woods looking

for handouts, it became his official nickname for me. I

finally had to kill the lynx because he scared off

game. I almost regretted it because he wasn’t bad

company. But I got a decent price for his pelt.

“Look what I shot,” Gale holds up a loaf of bread with

an arrow stuck in it, and I laugh. It’s real bakery

bread, not the 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 the fragrance that makes my mouth flood

with saliva. Fine bread like this is for special

occasions.