THE MORNING OF THE Reaping dawns bright and clear, with hardly a cloud to be seen. Mother Nature apparently takes no notice of our plight.

I dress myself in my best-a faded, mint-green dress with a high waistline and a sash that ties behind my back. It's old, and barely fits anymore, but it's the fanciest outfit I own.

Standing in front of the mirror in the hall, I try to decide what to do with my red mane of hair. It really doesn't look that bad down, just a bit unruly. After brushing through the red strands, I part my hair on the left and twist the front strands back, pinning them to keep my face clear.

Heading downstairs, I notice the smell of food coming from the kitchen, where Mae is cooking the evening meal. My mouth waters at the idea of fresh food.

The Reaping is supposed to be a holiday of sorts. Most people have at least part of the day off, and are expected to treat the day as a celebration. And for some, it is. But only after, only when they and the ones they care about are safe.

It's just one more cruel twist of the knife the Capitol has in our flesh. We aren't just forced to send children to butcher one another. No, we have to celebrate it.

The kitchen door opens and Mae appears. She glances over me with a critical eye.

"Shouldn't you put your hair up?" she asks, smoothing back her own grey strands. "You're 15, not 10."

I shrug noncommittally and reach for one of the small tesserae loaves. Mae frowns, but doesn't say anything as I bite into the dense bread.

"You'd best go on and get yourself to the square," she says, turning back to the stove.

I down the rest of the small loaf in four bites, then go to brush my teeth before heading out the front door. Once on the street, dread settles in my stomach at the site of other teens heading in the same direction as I.

It could be one of them, I think.

It could be me.

Head down, I avoid eye contact as I hurry past a group of what appear to be siblings. They don't laugh or talk as they would on any other day. It's eerie, how quiet everything is.

"You didn't get in trouble last night, did you?" a familiar voice whispers.

I glance sideways at Jael as he falls into step beside me.

"No," I say quietly, glancing at his little sister beside him. I don't remember her name.

She gives me a tentative smile and I try to smile back, not really managing it.

Surprisingly, Jay falls silent, not saying anything else until we reach the square.

"Good luck," he says, heading for the boys section.

I nod. "You too."

Jay's sister heads for the spectator area-apparently she isn't quite 12 yet.

Taking a deep breath, I head for the group of fifteens. The girl next to me looks ill, like she might faint or throw up. I think she's from the group home.

She looks up at me, fear in her eyes, and I look away.

Then, the anthem begins.

Licinia Sweetmeadow, the escort for District 5, is a strange-looking woman. But, then again, most people from the capitol are strange-looking to down right freakish. Her skin is absurdly pale, almost white, and her hair is a pale, icy-blue, sprayed with glitter. Her outfit is varying shades of pale blue and white, coated in glitter and various sparkly objects, with platform heels that add six inches to her height. She totters along on these stilts as she climbs the steps to the Justice building. I inwardly hope that she falls flat on her face. But she doesn't. She makes it to the microphone with little difficulty and proceeds to welcome us all to the 70th Hunger Games. Licinia pauses, as if expecting applause. When none is forthcoming, she continues.

The Reaping begins the same as every year, the same cheesy video from the Capitol and the same reading of the Treaty of Treason, which basically just says: You tried to win independence, but you lost, so now you have to send your kids to be slaughtered. It's all boring and terrible and no one really cares what the stupid Treaty says, but still, it gives us a few more minutes to put off the inevitability of having to cough up two more kids to send off.

Eventually, we get to the drawing part.

Licinia prances over to the glass ball that holds the girls names and jams her hand in. You can practically hear the entire crowd hold its collective breath as she digs around for what seems like minutes. She pulls out a slip of paper and sashays back to the microphone, plucking at the slip of paper with her hideously long nails. I hold my breath, hoping it isn't me. Why is she taking so long? Finally she gets the paper unfolded and clears her throat.

"Akira Burke," she chirps.

The crowd breathes again, but I don't. I can't make sense of it. Akira Burke. I seem to recall that being my name, but I don't understand what it means.

Licinia taps the microphone to make sure it's working.

"Is there an Akira Burke here?"

Everyone is looking around, trying to remember if they know an Akira Burke, asking where she is.

Are you Akira? Do you know Akira?

My mouth is dry and I lick my lips as realization sets in.

Me, it's me.

Swallowing hard, I force myself to move, to take one step and then another. People turn and shift, craning their necks to watch as I move forwards.

The same people who are going to watch me die.

"Ah, there you are," Licina says as I emerge from the mass. "Come on. Up here." She motions with her hand and I slowly ascend the stairs, staring straight ahead. When I reach the top, she claps. "Let's hear a round of applause for our female tribute!"

A pathetic excuse for applause drifts up from the crowd. Only a few people actually clap, and most of those are the racketeers, the people who organize the betting. I take in a deep breath as the shock wears off and reality sets in. But I refuse to cry. Crying would make me seem weak, an easy target. I've never been one to cry over my circumstances.

"Well, then," Licinia says, obviously off-set by the lack of applause. "Time to select the male tribute." She walks over to the boy's ball, her heels clicking against the platform, and plucks a name from the top. Silence again falls as she picks at the piece of folded paper.

"Padraic Kopp."

Another collective sigh of relief from those who weren't chosen. But I notice that Mayor Kopp has gone pale beside me. A boy, closely resembling the mayor, has stepped out from the crowd and is making his way towards the platform. I recognize him. He's the mayor's son, a real snob.

Licinia orders another round of applause, and this one is even more pitiful than the last. Then Padraic and I shake hands and are whisked into the Justice Building. I am escorted to a small room and left by myself. Usually, this is the place where friends and family come to say goodbye to the kids sent off to be slaughtered. But I find myself sitting in silence, watching seconds turn to minutes.

After about ten minutes, I begin to wonder if anyone will come. Who would come? I have no family. Who do I consider a friend? Old Mae? Maybe Jael? Maybe Mae would come. But after a few more minutes, I find myself thinking, Who am I kidding? I'm a loner, always have been.

After who knows how long Peacekeepers come in and I am escorted to a car that already contains Padraic and Licinia. I sit beside Licinia and stare out the window. I've never been in a car before, and it's an interesting experience. Though it does smell strange.

At the train station, we have to stand and let the hundreds of cameras capture our image. It's easier than I thought it would be. Whereas earlier, I was struggling not to cry, now all I feel is a simmering anger at being abandoned, at being reminded how truly alone I am in the world. Only two or three people that I really know, and not a one of them showed up. Fine, I don't need them.

I don't need anyone.