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"
It
is
both
a
time
for
repentance
and
a
time
for
thanks
,
"
intones
the
mayor
.
Then
he
reads
the
list
of
past
District
12
victors
.
In
seventy-four
years
,
we
have
had
exactly
two
.
Only
one
is
still
alive
.
Haymitch
Abernathy
,
a
paunchy
,
middle-aged
man
,
who
at
this
moment
appears
hollering
something
unintelligible
,
staggers
onto
the
stage
,
and
falls
into
the
third
chair
.
He
's
drunk
.
Very
.
The
crowd
responds
with
its
token
applause
,
but
he
's
confused
and
tries
to
give
Effie
Trinket
a
big
hug
,
which
she
barely
manages
to
fend
off
.
The
mayor
looks
distressed
.
Since
all
of
this
is
being
televised
,
right
now
District
12
is
the
laughingstock
of
Panem
,
and
he
knows
it
.
He
quickly
tries
to
pull
the
attention
back
to
the
reaping
by
introducing
Effie
Trinket
.
Bright
and
bubbly
as
ever
,
Effie
Trinket
trots
to
the
podium
and
gives
her
signature
,
"
Happy
Hunger
Games
!
And
may
the
odds
be
ever
in
your
favor
!
"
Her
pink
hair
must
be
a
wig
because
her
curls
have
shifted
slightly
off-center
since
her
encounter
with
Haymitch
She
goes
on
a
bit
about
what
an
honor
it
is
to
be
here
,
although
everyone
knows
she
's
just
aching
to
get
bumped
up
to
a
better
district
where
they
have
proper
victors
,
not
drunks
who
molest
you
in
front
of
the
entire
nation
.
Through
the
crowd
,
I
spot
Gale
looking
back
at
me
with
a
ghost
of
a
smile
.
As
reapings
go
,
this
one
at
least
has
a
slight
entertainment
factor
.
But
suddenly
I
am
thinking
of
Gale
and
his
forty-two
names
in
that
big
glass
ball
and
how
the
odds
are
not
in
his
favor
.
Not
compared
to
a
lot
of
the
boys
.
And
maybe
he
's
thinking
the
same
thing
about
me
because
his
face
darkens
and
he
turns
away
.
"
But
there
are
still
thousands
of
slips
,
"
I
wish
I
could
whisper
to
him
.
It
's
time
for
the
drawing
.
Effie
Trinket
says
as
she
always
does
,
"
Ladies
first
!
"
and
crosses
to
the
glass
ball
with
the
girls
'
names
.
She
reaches
in
,
digs
her
hand
deep
into
the
ball
,
and
pulls
out
a
slip
of
paper
.
The
crowd
draws
in
a
collective
breath
and
then
you
can
hear
a
pin
drop
,
and
I
'm
feeling
nauseous
and
so
desperately
hoping
that
it
's
not
me
,
that
it
's
not
me
,
that
it
's
not
me
.
Effie
Trinket
crosses
back
to
the
podium
,
smoothes
the
slip
of
paper
,
and
reads
out
the
name
in
a
clear
voice
.
And
it
's
not
me
.
It
's
Primrose
Everdeen
.
One
time
,
when
I
was
in
a
blind
in
a
tree
,
waiting
motionless
for
game
to
wander
by
,
I
dozed
off
and
fell
ten
feet
to
the
ground
,
landing
on
my
back
.
It
was
as
if
the
impact
had
knocked
every
wisp
of
air
from
my
lungs
,
and
I
lay
there
struggling
to
inhale
,
to
exhale
,
to
do
anything
.
