Survivor: The Forty-Seventh Hunger Games

Chapter 9

Here's the Nine girl and I added Demetrius so I can delete the earlier chapter once I get the other full District from Demetrius' chapter.

Hannah Dandelion, 15 (D9F)

Mrs. Twill's garden had tomato worms. I couldn't stop the Reaping, but I could keep my mind off it for fifteen minutes while I helped her pick them off. Goodness knew I wasn't going to get any sleep. I didn't even wake up early, since waking up early required someone to fall asleep in the first place. I could keep my mind off the Games and off... some other things.

I knew I was in the doghouse as soon as I walked in the door. Mom was breathing heavy, and she had that tight look around her eyes that meant whatever she next said was going to be a little louder than usual and a little sterner than usual. I wasn't wrong.

"What were you thinking?" she asked, setting down the spoon she'd been using to stir some baking and walking toward me with the heavy footsteps that meant she was really mad.

"I was just helping Mrs. Twill with her garden," I said.

"Today? Why would you do that?" she asked. I knew exactly what she was talking about.

"There's time left. I came back early," I said. I didn't know why they made us do this every year. Sara was dead every day. She wasn't extra dead on Reaping day. I already missed her. Remembering her on the most stressful day of the year just made me feel like I was going to die of sorrow and worry before I even heard the name on the slip. Mom saw I was about to cry and softened up.

"Let's get started so you're not rushed," she said softly. We moved into the tiny living room and joined Dad, who was setting up the little shrine we kept on a shelf over the stove. There was a Sara's preschool registration picture, which was the most recent one we had, even though she was fifteen when she died. We saved up a month to buy the frame. For Reaping day, we added tokens from throughout her life. Everyone added something they remembered her by- some special moment we never wanted to forget. Dad was laying out a blanket underneath the photo as we came in. He always took it the hardest of us all. He was fiercely protective and more passionate than anyone else I knew. One time, after they thought I was asleep, I heard him tell my mother he wished he could put his name in the bowl a million times so no one else ever had to go to the Games.

I'd already planned what I was going to add, so it didn't really matter that I was late. I went to my room and pulled a single metal jack from a worn-out box I kept under my bed. Sara found it once while we were out playing. We used to pretend we were playing jacks, even though we only had one and didn't have a ball. We would just spin it on the floor and see who could make it spin the longest. Mom put in one of Sara's baby socks, the one with rainbow beads on the top, and Dad added a picture she drew him when she was ten. He always pretended he was just coughing when he cried, but this time he didn't pretend he was fooling anyone.

"Are you going?" Mom asked. We were sitting together on the floor remembering and thinking, and I was squished between them. Mom hated to be late, but she didn't rush me now.

"It's okay. I'll be fine," I said. "I just hope Olivia doesn't get Reaped. Maybe if she does someone will volunteer for her."

"Mind your own business!" Mom almost shouted, and she jumped up. She grabbed me suddenly in a hug as her face crumpled.

"It's okay, I didn't mean me!" I said. Dad took Mom in his arms as she shook. I ran out while they were still holding each other. I really hadn't meant me. I wouldn't be brave enough for that. But I hadn't thought about the effect my words might have on Mom, or the effect of my trip to Mrs. Twill's garden on the most important day of the year. I was already scared, and seeing my parents like that made me even more unsure.

Demetrius "Dem" Fields, 17 (9)

I was walking home from a long day in the fields when I saw a little kid tugging a wagon. It was getting late, and bad things could happen to kids out alone at night. Most of the people in Nine were good, but it only took one. I broke into a jog and caught up with the little boy. He jumped when he heard me coming, but relaxed when he saw who it was. We didn't know each other personally, but he'd likely seen me at work. I worked as a thresher, cutting down the grain with a curved hook, and little kids like him usually gathered up the fallen grain to tie into sheaves.

"What's up, squirt?" I asked. "You better get home or your mom will worry."

"Yeah, she's probably already mad. I just have to drag all this along, and one of the wheels is wiggly," the boy said. He pointed at the left front wheel, but I didn't make it all the way there. My eye caught what the wagon was holding and my heart sank.

"It's all right," the boy said when he noticed my expression. "The older boys still have lots more slips. No one my age ever gets picked."

No one should have to bargain his life away for a sack of grain. A little boy like him should be able to eat candy and never, ever worry about having enough food, much less lie awake at night wondering if the slip with his name on it wouldn't have been in there if he hadn't signed up for one more portion of tesserae.

"You going that way?" I asked, pointing ahead. The boy nodded.

"Me too. How about you let me take that off your hands for a minute? I feel guilty being so much bigger and not helping," I said. The boy let me take over and I pulled the wagon as we walked along.

We hadn't gone far when a few more boys joined us. They were exactly what I'd been afraid of when I saw the boy walking alone. They weren't the worst thing that could happen to a child at night, but they were trouble. I didn't know any of their names, but I knew there were no extra slips in the bowl for them. They got their food by other means.

"What you got there?" one of the three boys asked. None of them were holding anything, but I could tell from their rounded pockets that that could change at any time.

"Tesserae. Nothing you'd want," I said. The little boy slowed down and walked behind the wagon, farther away from the boys.

"I don't know, looks pretty tasty to me," the lead boy said.

"Go sign up for some then. There's plenty," I said.

"It's a long way away. Maybe we're lazy," the boy said. Something blurred in the air, and the little boy yelped. I ran to his side and checked him over. There was a tiny smear of blood where the rock had hit the side of his head. I'd been trying to keep it together, but that was it. In a flash, I lost it.

The rock was like a baseball in my hand. I whirled around and let it fly with all my strenght. It hit the lead boy in the eye and he shrieked. His hands flew to his face, but not fast enough to hide the red and clear fluid that ran down his cheek. The other boys started forward, but I stood and they ran. The lead boy followed, still wailing.

As soon as it was done, I felt terrible. I could have gotten them away without doing that. Maybe they hit first, but that didn't mean I had to hit back. Regret was the worst thing of all. It meant you knew you messed up, but you could never make it better. "Sorry" could fix a damaged relationship, but it couldn't put back a ruined eye.

I added some more information about voting in the list chapter.