for james proimos
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书快论坛：http://www.shukuai.com
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2
part i
"the tributes"
3
when i wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. my fin-
gers 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 to-
gether. 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
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the vermin and he’s a born mouser. even catches the occa-
sional 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 fo-
rage 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 sun-
ken faces. but today the black cinder streets are empty. shut-
ters on the squat gray houses are closed. the reaping isn’t un-
til 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
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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 bel-
ly 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 con-
cerns 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 poach-
ing 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
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someone might be arming the seam would never have been
allowed.
in the fall, a few brave souls sneak into the woods to harv-
est 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 the people
who rule our country, panem, from the far-off 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 short-
ages, or the hunger games. prim might begin to repeat my
words and then where would we be?
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