Hailey squeezes my hand so hard it almost hurts. I'm doing my best to keep calm, at the last second I grab my puffer and shove it into the pocket of my dress.

We head for the square. Attendance is mandatory unless you are on death's door. This evening, officials will come around and check to see if this is the case. If not, you'll be imprisoned. As we walk I can see other family's leading frightened and scared children. Some parents are marching their kids like a parade and an honour. Some and holding their kids close.

The square's surrounded by shops, and on public market days, especially if there's good weather, it has a holiday feel to it. But today, despite the bright banners hanging on the buildings, there's an air of grimness. The camera crews, perched like buzzards on rooftops, only add to the effect.

People file in silently and sign in. The reaping is a good opportunity for WICKED to keep tabs. This is the first round of Reaping, I'm sure there will be more in the years to come. It seems like the kids whose parents volunteered them weren't enough and now this was their way to take their pick. Seemed like a weird way to do it. But I wasn't a grown-up running the country.

Kids from as young as six, all the way through eighteen-year-olds are herded into roped areas marked off by ages, the oldest in the front, the young ones, like Hailey, toward the back. Family members line up around the perimeter, holding tightly to one another's hands. But there are others, too, who have no one they love at stake, or who no longer care, who slip among the crowd, taking bets on the kids whose names will be drawn.

The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic as people arrive. The square's quite large, but not enough to hold all of the population, of Denver. There are going to be a few different reaping ceremonies throughout the city and out around the other supposed big cities.

Latecomers are directed to the adjacent streets, where they can watch the event on screens as it's televised live by the state. And then we'll watch the next reaping in the other big town squares.

I ran my sweaty hands on my dress. There was a table set up on the stage. A big clear glass bowl. I knew Hailey's name was only written once. Mine was written many many times. For each criteria I met on WICKEDs checklist, my name was written ten times.

At exactly 2 a man with a white suit and a thin pointy face gets up and walks to the microphone. He smiled at the crowd. It didn't match his beady eyes. He looked down his long nose at the kids. He had some greying hair that was combed over his balding patch.

He introduces himself as Director Janson, and tells of the history of Panem, in a nasely voice. It grates on me. I'm already nervous and worried for Hailey. I turn my head trying to see her.

The man talks about the country that rose up out of the ashes, of the strong grit of North America. He lists the solar Flare disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the brutal savages people turned into, the brutal war for what little sustenance remained and then the Flare and how that destroyed towns and settlements. The sharp rat featured man talked about how those dark days forced the government to form a force tasked with trying to save the known world, how WICKED, world in catastrophe Killzone experiment department, was formed.

I knew all of this. It's drilled into us at school. The Sun Flares happened years ago, when my parents were little. So school history was Sun Flares and WICKED propaganda.

Through the crowd, I spot Minho looking back at me with a ghost of a smile. We always had a slight dark sense of humor, so when he rolled his eyes with a yawn I bite my lip to keep from snorting.

Director Janson now introduces Effie Trinket, who is now in charge of the stage. She's got a bright bubble gum pink wig on. It's full of wild corc screw curls all pinned up. Her heels are so tall she wobbles only slightly.

I meet Minho's eye and we both turn away, a hand covering our mouths, keeping the giggles inside. Some people in Denver, who work for WICKED, like to flaunt it, and so wear the most rediculous outfights. Effie Trinket is one of these rediculous pets of WICKED.

"In the name of Science, let's find a cure and save humanity! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" She cried wildly into the mic.

The crowd didn't respond much. She doesn't seem to miss a beat and goes on a bit about what an honor it is to be here and what an honour it is for us kids to be here to help save the world. But suddenly I am thinking of Minho 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.

"Jillian Hay."

A girl with long bright blond hair steps forward and is swept away by the WICKED guards and up on stage. She looks pale and slightly sick.

"Excellent!" Effie cries and then clicks clacks in her heels back to the bowl. She reaches in and grabs another paper.

"Rachael Evens!"

A young girl about 12 with reddish hair stumbles forwards, her jaw clamped and head lifted high. I'm impressed by her defiance and courage. Effie goes back and forth a few times, nine to be exact. And then on the tenth time I can almost breathe easier. Her long hot pink claws dig around the glass bowl and pick out one last paper.

I hardly hear the name. But I know I didn't. I didn't miss hear. My stomach drops and my head spins.

"Hailey Turner."

•×•

One time, when I was in a blind in a tree, waiting motionless to scare dad when he came home, 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.

That's how I feel now, trying to remember how to breathe, unable to speak, totally stunned as the name bounces around the inside of my skull. Someone is gripping my arm, a girl from the same class as me, and I think maybe I started to fall and she caught me.

There must be a mistake. She's seven. Her name is only in once...how could she be picked?

And then I see her, the blood drained from her face, hands clenched in fists at her sides, walking with stiff, small steps up toward the stage, passing me, and I see the back of her blouse has become untucked and hangs out over her skirt. It's this detail, the untucked blouse forming a ducktail, that brings me back to myself.

"Hailey!" The strangled cry comes out of my throat, and my muscles begin to move again. "Hailey!" I don't need to shove through the crowd. The other kids make way immediately allowing me a straight path to the stage. I reach her just as she is about to mount the steps. With one sweep of my arm, I push her behind me.

"I volunteer!" I gasp. "I volunteer as tribute!"

There's some confusion on the stage. No one knew if this was allowed or not. Effie Trinket looks to Director Janson. He looks shocked for a second. But recovers quickly and his smile reforms.

"Well all right. Excellent. Okay, we can work with this."

I can hear Hailey screaming historically behind me. She's holding my waist like a vice grip.

"Let go," I say harshly, because this is upsetting me and I don't want to cry. When they televise the replay of the reapings tonight, everyone will make note of my tears, and I'll be marked as an easy target. A weakling. I will give no one that satisfaction. "Let go!" I repeat.

I can feel someone pulling her from my back. I turn and see Minho has lifted Hailey off the ground and she's thrashing in his arms. "Up you go Wheezy." He said in a strained voice, but his face is set and looking at me with sadness. I clamp my eyes shut. I can't cry. I won't cry.

Hailey's screaming for me. I turn back to the stage trying hard not to wince. The WICKED guards usher me up onto the stage and I see Minho has brought Hailey to my mom. Grinding my teeth I'm ushered even closer to the mic.

"Well, bravo!" gushes Effie Trinket. "That's the spirit! You are one step closer to being a hero! Save humanity, find a cure!" She's pleased to finally have a little action, it's been pretty boring so far. "What's your name?"

"Raya Turner." I some how managed to get out. My throat is tight. And I can feel my chest becoming tight.

"I bet my buttons that was your sister."

I just nod.

"She's too young to... understand what's going on. So...I'll ta- I'll take her spot."

"Well bravo! Bravo. Let's give a big round of applause to our newest recruit, Miss Raya Turner!" trills Effie Trinket.

To the everlasting credit of the people in Denver, not one person claps. Not even the ones holding betting slips, the ones who are usually beyond caring. Possibly because they know me from school, or knew my father, or have encountered Hailey who everyone just loves, or knows my mom. So instead of acknowledging applause, I stand there unmoving while they take part in the boldest form of dissent they can manage. Silence. Which says we do not agree. We do not condone. All of this is wrong.

Then something unexpected happens. At least, I don't expect it because I don't think of Denver as a place that cares about me. But a shift has occurred since I stepped up to take Hailey's place in The Trials, and now it seems I have become someone precious.

At first one, then another, then almost every member of the crowd touches the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out to me. It is an old and rarely used gesture of our area, occasionally seen at funerals. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone you love.

I shoot Director Janson a neevouse look, I can see his nose twitch and his eyes narrow slightly. He clears his throat and waves his hand for Effie to keep going.

I stepped back into the line of girls as Effie made her way to the bowl of boys names.

"Boys! It's your turn!" She cries, she shoots Director Janson a nervous glance of her own. She grabs a paper.

"Galileo Walker."

A tall broad blond boy stepped forwt. He looked mean. His blue eyes looked angry.

"Victor Van Hugo."

"Gus Taylor."

She click clacked to the bowl again, my hands were in tight fists holding my dress tight. I was watching my mom sweep Hailey away, she was still crying wildly. The next name made me whipe my head back and I was listening again.

The crowd parted and I watched as my best friend slowly saunter to the front of the sage. He has his signature smirk on his naturally broody face. I caught Minho's eye and he gave me a wink. How could he be so relaxed and carefree? He knew just as well as I did what was going to happen. But the closer he got, the more I could see the fear and panic in his eyes.

He climbed the stairs and came to stand beside me. He stood shoulder to shoulder with me. From behind our backs he gripped my hand tightly in his own.

That was the last time I saw my baby sister, my mother and my best friend Minho in person again.

My life changed the moment I stepped up and volunteered to go into the Maze Trials.

I never saw the inside of the Maze. They found out I had Asthma, and I was cut almost immediately. They came and forcibly took Hailey from my mom and apparently, so I heard, they shot my mother in cold blood. But I don't know if that was true or not.

But with WICKED in control...my odds were never in my favor.