The stage stood draped in bunting—bright, terrible orange against the weathered wooden platform. The seal of Panem gleamed at its center.

Behind her, the two existing Victors sat on a bench to the left—Mags, small and weathered, her hands folded; Finnick Odair, young and golden and watching the crowd with a laziness that didn’t reach his eyes.

In the sea of eighteen-year-olds, you stood still.

To your right, a girl trembled so hard her braids vibrated. To your left, a boy kept rolling his shoulders, like he could shake the fear loose.

Your mother’s hand remained locked around yours.