The weather in District Two is almost perfect. Wildflowers bloom in patches and the cold is more crisp than biting. I would never admit it, but I like my District. Small villages are scattered across the mountains with tracks and trails that lead to the main square. The main square is classic, an elegant Justice Building that we generally take pride in. A symbol of the Capitol - more accurately, a symbol of the favour our District receives from the Capitol. Elegant marble in perfect condition. There's always sound in District Two - always the sharp crack of metal on stone, always busy conversation, always boots on the pavement as the men and women head home from long workdays. My little village is clustered around a central stone mine - we're certainly not the wealthiest village in Two, but it's homey and nice and my favorite thing is listening to the gossipy conversations of the women who stroll past my home on their morning walks.

I smile a little at the thought, before shaking off my boots and entering our local bakery, the chimes of the bell alerting the workers of my presence. Immediately, I feel happy. The bakery smells like home and fresh bread, and its warmth instantly makes my face turn red. I've practically grown up here, and I crane my head to see Orion, who's stocky form is lounged on the counter, looking bored. Orion's parents founded the bakery just before he was born and because our mothers have been best friends since high school, it was practically fate that I would grow up in this bakery as much as Orion.

"Psst!" I whisper, tiptoeing up to the counter. The only customer at the moment is a little old man who sits in the corner with a hot drink, so I don't feel too bad about bothering Orion at work. He looks up, startled, and immediately knocks over the drink that's sitting next to him.

"Happy Reaping Week to you, too." I smirk, feeling my dimple appear, and he rolls his eyes while simultaneously trying to tidy the spilled drink. I grin, a real one this time.

"Are you happy, Clara?" He asks, furrowing his brow. "This is my best apron, too!"

"Please, they're all the same." I snort, but grab a napkin and help him tidy the best I can, blotching his stained apron. He grins and blushes a little, which makes me blush too and all of a sudden, a million butterflies are in my stomach with nowhere to fly. Orion and I are friends - nothing more, but lately it feels like things have shifted between us. Neither of us have said anything because Orion's a non-confrontational person and I'm too afraid of scaring it away, but he makes me smile and the butterflies like it.

We grin at each other like idiots for a minute until he speaks.

"Have you picked your outfit yet?" He teases, flicking my braid.

"Oh, of course. I've been planning it for years. It was a difficult decision - you know, picking between the three whole dresses that I own, but I think I've settled on the white one." There is some truth in my words, but I'm mainly teasing. The Reaping is more of a mild inconvenience for people like Orion and me. Even if we do get drawn, it's extremely rare for no one to volunteer.

"You never know," Orion busies himself with organizing the pastries on display, possibly to present the illusion that he's busy at work to anyone who might walk past. "I actually heard that there's a smaller group of Careers this year, and I heard that there's barely any who are 18."

"Don't be daft, Orion. There's always someone who volunteers."

His face turns dark. "Not always. Remember the year before last?"

The year before last was a terrible Games. The boy was a Career, but the girl was a volunteer from the poorest village in Two. She had never held a weapon in her life and was so malnourished she looked like she might fall over if the wind picked up. She died in the Bloodbath, gruesome and horrible, killed by the Career pack agonizingly slowly. It gave me nightmares for a week.

"That was an exception." I roll my eyes and hurriedly speak. "Let's not talk about the Reaping anymore."

"I think I'm going to volunteer," He frames it like a throwaway comment, but I feel the mood shift instantly. The butterflies quickly vacate my stomach, replaced by a solid block of dread and the heat of annoyance.

"Don't be stupid."

"I'm not being stupid- Don't look at me that way, I'm not. I was talking to Dad about it and he really thinks I could win-"

"Do you hear yourself right now? It's torture in there, Orion!"

"I'm seventeen! And I've been going to the Academy more often, and I'm smart too, you know that more than anyone-"

"Stop, Orion. You're not going to gain anything from volunteering for the Hunger Games."

"I really could win, Clare. Think about Dad! About Aries! This could change their lives and you know it as well as I do."

Orion's got that look on his face, that eager puppy-dog look that's normally equal parts adorable and ridiculous, but just infuriates me now. My cheeks are warm and I can feel the heat of tears beginning to form. He's ridiculous, this boy. He gets these ideas in his head, about glory and honour and making his family truly proud and he's so stubborn that no one can convince him against it.

"Your Dad and Aries will be fine. It's not as if Aries murdered someone - he just dropped out, for gods sake."

My voice is shaky with a mix of anger and fear, but I try to steady it. Orion is worried about his family, worried about their reputation and he's got it in his head that winning the Games will be the best way to help them.

"You should hear what they're saying," Orion lowers his voice, juts out his chin, cheeks flushed with emotion, "about my family. And we're losing business, too. We're going to go bankrupt-"

"You could die, Orion. And that's not an option. Period. Besides, it's still a week away. Can you just drop it for now?"

He rolls his eyes at me, frustrated, goes back to scrubbing the counters like they've personally wronged him. I look at him - his curly dark hair, solid short build, the strong profile I know like the back of my hand. Orion dying? Not an option. He's not even a Career, either. Just a boy who's too stubborn for his own good. Anger builds up like steam, and I know he can sense it because he knows me better than anyone. When he doesn't say anything, I give in to it, storming out of the bakery, just resisting slamming the door behind me for good measure. Once I'm back out in the cold, I try to calm myself, resorting to taking a few deep breaths to calm down. A lady walks past and gives me a strange look and I glare back at her. Embarrassing? A little.

I've always had a temper. My mother says it's from my father and my father says it's from my mother, but I think that it's something entirely my own. My burden. I care - a lot. Too much, sometimes. I sigh and begin to track back the way I came. Back to the little house that just fits the three of us - my mother, my father, and me. It's a bit of a walk, but something about the weather and the flowers and the little bits of snow that I can see on the mountains in the distance calms me down, and by the time I've arrived at our little cottage with flowers on the roof, I'm less mad and more forcibly uncaring about Orion. He can do whatever he wants, I tell myself, like that makes it any better.

Back home, the house is empty. No yelling father. No mother who is a million worlds away. I'm glad for the sound of the men working mine nearby, though - it's close enough that I can overhear workplace chatter and the sound of metal on stone and the consistency of it all calms me.

The house has been empty more often than not as of late. Since he got a job working in the Fort - local slang for our biggest mountain, the one that holds the Capitol's main military fortifications and artillery - he's been home less and less. When he is home, I try to be out of the house, normally ending up at the bakery or at Orion's. My mother is gone, too, which I'm secretly, selfishly glad of. When she is home, we barely speak. Making conversation with my mother is like making conversation with a coma patient - it's all I can do to make sure she's eating and put her to bed at night with a kiss on her forehead.

It's nights like those that the house feels truly empty, like I'm living with a ghost. When it's just me - as it is now - it somehow feels less lonely, like I'm years into the future in a house that's entirely my own, my own space, no absent-minded mother or harsh father to drive me out of the house and into the dark night. It's selfish of me to think like this because they're my family and of course I love them, but even so, it's thoughts like these that keep me up thinking late into the night.

Our house is small, but it's enough. One central room connects to four others; a cramped kitchen, dark bathroom, and two bedrooms. My parents built this house; brick by brick, and little details are splattered throughout that make it recognizable as our own. My mother's untouched knitting, dusty from lack of use, placed carefully on top of the fireplace. A photo from my parents' wedding day that is framed and dusted and sits over the door. My father's spare boots and favourite jacket hung up in the corner, a knife he made that gleams threateningly from its place on the windowsill.

I've resolved to open the window to invite the cool air in when the television crackles to life I immediately turn to watch. The Mayor appears, a fat old man who has been in charge for about as long as I can remember. His daughter went to the Games a while ago; a massive Career who made it to the final three. I would've only been eleven or twelve, but I remember it being a particularly brutal death. I shudder, and turn my attention to his words.

"The promise - you will enter the Games as a child and come out a Victor. District Two deserves Victors. If you exemplify our strength and prosperity, show it by volunteering for the 73rd Annual Hunger Games, and, as always, may the odds be ever in your favour."

A district-wide broadcast. May the odds be ever in your favour, indeed.