I wear my second-nicest dress. It's flowy and white, but short enough not to be mistaken for a wedding dress. It's perfect for the occasion--made by a moderately famous designer, but nothing I can't afford to lose. My first-nicest dress is a ballgown, and of course there's no way I'm wearing that. 

I also choose a pair of white flats, to match, decorated with small rosy bows. They're soft and comfortable, the type of shoes you'd change into once the fancy type of heels start to blister--so, again, exactly right for the reaping ceremony, where I'll be standing for a while, without the option of moving. 

I accessorize with a thin gold chain around my neck, the only jewelry I wear. When I was little, my grandmother told stories of long-ago women piercing their earlobes with sharp needles, sticking jewelry similar to rings through the hole left behind. I didn't believe her until she showed me and Salacia the scars left behind by the inane procedure, twin holes in her ears. 

It would make sense to assume that I wish for these extra jewelry options, but the idea of forcing something like that upon yourself makes my nose crinkle. Rings stabbed through your ears can't be worth the pain, however minute. 

Someone knocks on my door. For a moment, my heart leaps, then sinks again when the woman who opens it isn't my father.

"It's time to go, Daphne." She is older than me, a good bit younger than my father. This is the mayor, a woman who rose quickly through the ranks, a sharp look to her features, to her slicked-back dark brown hair, that makes you quickly recognize why. 

Mayor Guinevere Gallopetal, Gallo to her friends (which does not happen to include my father), has it in her. You can see it in her eyes, in the tautness of her lips, in the wrinkles that have not yet begun to form. 

And so it's weird that she's the one picking me up, because however influential my father believes himself to be, getting the mayor to watch over his daughter is not one of his privileges. 

I look up at her, the question slipping through my lips before my brain can remind them it's not a good idea to ask it. "Why are you here? Why not some babysitter?"

Her slight smile fades, slowly morphing into a disappointed frown. "I believe that is none of your concern, Daphne. You're ready? I'll drive you."

I don't push it, accepting that if something else is going on, I certainly don't have the authority to know about it. Or a reason to care, really. My father gets himself into plenty awkward situations, this would very well not be the first. 

It is the first time the mayor herself is driving me anywhere, much less the reaping, which throws me for a loop. And when I glance over at the clock hanging in our foyer, there are ten minutes left until the ceremony begins, five shorn away by the quick drive from here to the town square.

My eyes narrow. Something is going on here, something that goes far beyond me, and probably my father, too.

I'll ask him tomorrow, though, see if he knows. If I get lucky, he'll tell me. 

***

I rush into the square, glancing around until I recognize someone my age and join them. The reaping has already begun--we're late. The announcer, whose name I never bothered to learn, has already finished with his speech, gut bouncing as he moves towards the glass ball representing District Four's population of teenage boys. 

As he pulls a name out of the globe, the crowd quiets, anticipating. I can hear the shuffling of paper as he opens it, slowly, reading off the name Apollo Theodoros--one I recognize, if only faintly. He's in the year below me, and although we've never talked, I have always noticed his name, the strange formality of it. It was only this year that I was told it's because he was born in the Capitol, his parents moving their family away when he was young. 

Two pretty girls beside me giggle about how happy they are he's leaving, and I shoot them a quick glare neither notice. On the contrary, just behind me a girl who shares Apollo's pale features wipes her eyes, attempting to be inconspicuous despite the hundreds of pairs of eyes currently staring her down. 

As the boy steps up to the stage, confidence flashes across his expression, and when the announcer asks around, I am surprised to see no one's volunteered. We house some amount of careers here in Four--there's an academy way up north, but it doesn't seem to produce nearly enough victors, so in past years, they have become more hesitant.

The announcer moves over to the girl's ball, building suspense as he roots around the slips of paper, considering. I can't stop myself from staring, wondering how many of those little pieces of paper have my own name on them. 

The answer is not very many, especially compared to the amount of those who have to take out tesserae. I have been privileged in that the only reason I have ever had to have my name in that large glass ball is simply by living. 

"Layla Everman," he exclaims, glancing out to the crowd. A small girl far in front of me curls into herself, posture weakening as the girls around her giggle softly, gently nudging her arm until she walks up to the stage.

I don't recognize her, but she looks young. Fourteen, maybe? The type of person to take out tesserae, too. 

The announcer exchanges soft banter with the desolate girl before looking out towards us again, gaze skipping around the girl's section of the crowd as he asks for volunteers.  

I steel myself, straightening my back and squaring my shoulders. I don't like my life here, right? The Games could change it completely--for the better, and for the worse, but completely nevertheless. 

It could be guaranteeing myself a grisly death, but there is no use in staying here to live out a cold, miserable life. At the very least, I could save Layla, which would be worth it, I'm sure. 

I raise my hand, high. "I volunteer."

My voice rings throughout the square. Everyone turns to look at me, and I feel my face heat up. 

The announcer's eyebrows raise. "Name?"

I swallow my fear, but I'm sure it shows in the shaking of my hands, the slight redness of my eyes. "Daphne Amphitrite."

I stride down the aisle with faux confidence, not bothering to glance sideways at my peers. I don't know any of them, anyways, because they have never tried to know me. I'm unlucky, so they say. And so they would say, forevermore, if I don't do this. 

Layla stumbles down the steps, and I offer a hand, helping her, watching her intently as she makes her way back to her spot, shaking intensely. 

I just saved a life. And very likely sacrificed my own in the doing of it, but still, Layla will live. 

The announcer grabs my wrist, moving it towards Apollo's before I take the hint and grab his hand. My head swims like I've just taken morphine, and so he is the one to thrust our interlocked fingers into the air, the crowd silent, staring. 

I blink, vision blurry, but quickly focus it and try to memorize every face in the crowd, every expression, every person I will never see again after this moment. 

We're led off the stage. My father is asleep in a chair right beside the exit, head lolled down onto his chest, his snores raspy, yet thankfully quiet. I shoot him a longing glance. Half of me says that this is a drunk man who I doubt will even bother to say goodbye to me, but the other half, the more sentimental parts of my personality, argue that he is my father. 

"Goodbye," I whisper under my breath, quiet enough that I think no one else hears. Apollo glances back from where he walks in front of me, Peacekeepers flanking the two of us, as if we're dangerous. 

My heart twinges with sadness and I look down. I hope that when he wakes up he'll be mournful, regret my loss--but I know, deep down, that when he wakes all he will be is hungover. The girl living with him would be gone, a weight off his chest, and maybe he would even be slightly happy about that. 

I tell myself I'm not going to cry, not going to show any weakness, but a tear still drips from my eye. It trails down my cheek before landing on the wooden ground, one salty wet spot, too far from the sea around us. I sympathize with it. I'm leaving the sea now, and am most likely never coming back. 

The tear soaks into the wood. Within moments, it's gone. 

I swallow back more tears. The heavy door closes behind me and Apollo, and it's quiet. 

The announcer--he announces himself as Prometheus--leads us into separate rooms. Inside there's a velvet bench, big enough for maybe two people to fit on, if they squeezed together. 

A peacekeeper in a stark white uniform informs me that this is the last time I will see my loved ones, so I should make the most of this time. He says I have a visitor. 

I perk up, expecting it to be my father. But of course it isn't--he's asleep outside, or maybe even getting a ride home by now, making drunk comments to a chauffeur in the passenger seat. 

Instead, it's Shan. She walks inside the small room, standing because I occupy the bench. The door closes behind her, leaving nothing inside the room but me, Shan, and a whole lot of awkward silence. 

I stroke the velvet. We have another bench like this in our house. It reminds me of home--a home I'll never return to, that never really felt like home at all. 

When I look up, Shan is staring at me. Her brown eyes pierce through me like lasers, and I have to look away. 

My stomach rumbles, the sound piercing in this small room. 

"So you are hungry." Her tone isn't questioning--she states it like a fact. 

I nod, reluctantly. My hands fiddle with the ribbon around my waist, but are quickly moved away by Shan, who takes them both in her calloused, wrinkled hands. She smiles, meeting my gaze. 

"I forgive you, dear," she says. I mumble a thank-you, mirroring her faded smile. 

She takes a small package out of a pocket I didn't notice earlier, and presses it into my hands. 

I look down at it, my fingers itching to tear away the wrapping paper. Shan shakes her head. 

"Don't open it now. Wait until you are in your room. Think of it as a gift from me--a token of home."

And with that, her final goodbye, she stands. Raps her knuckles against the door twice. A peacekeeper opens it, letting her go. 

She and I lock eyes as she leaves. I hope she won't forget me, but I know she will. 

They all will, with time.