Sunrise on the Reaping (The Hunger Games, #0.5)

by Suzanne Collins

“Happy birthday, Haymitch. I figure if you’re old enough to make it, you’re old enough to drink it.” I have to agree and, though I’m not a drinker myself, I’m glad to get the bottle.

Already sobbing

She tends to take a dark view of things, but maybe that’s to be expected from someone named for a dead girl. Well, half for the dead girl called Lenore in this old poem and half for a shade of gray, which I found out the day I met her.

She wasn’t one of Burdock’s Everdeen cousins, but I knew he had some distant ones on his ma’s side.

Clerk Carmine and her other uncle, Tam Amber, have raised her since her ma died in childbirth, seeing her pa’s always been something of a mystery. They’re not blood kin, her being a Baird, but the Covey look out for their own.

“And that’s part of our trouble. Thinking things are inevitable. Not believing change is possible.”

I see them cut to Lenore Dove, who has a hand pressed against her mouth. She isn’t crying, so Plutarch won’t get his tearful good-bye. Not from her and not from me. They will not use our tears for their entertainment.

I locate Lenore Dove in the crowd and we lock eyes, desperation setting in. For a moment, everything else peels away and there’s only us. She lowers her hand and presses it to her heart as her lips form the words silently. I love you like all-fire. I mouth back, You, too.

One of the assistants appears with a tray of glasses filled with a pale liquid. He accidentally offers one to me — “Champagne?” — before he realizes his mistake. “Whoops! None for the children!”

Children can brutally murder each other in an arena, but champagne is off-limits. Got it!

That’s when I see Lenore Dove. She’s up on a ridge, her red dress plastered to her body, one hand clutching the bag of gumdrops. As the train passes, she tilts her head back and wails her loss and rage into the wind. And even though it guts me, even though I smash my fists into the glass until they bruise, I’m grateful for her final gift. That she’s denied Plutarch the chance to broadcast our farewell. The moment our hearts shattered? It belongs to us.

Plutarch was right. I did mess up. Big-time. And I will pay for it with my death and with the broken hearts and lives of everyone who loves me.

And a life with Lenore Dove, loving her, marrying her, raising up our kids, her teaching them music and me doing whatever, digging coal or making white liquor — it wouldn’t have mattered if she was with me. All gone, all lost.

In fifty years, we’ve only had one victor, and that was a long time ago. A girl who no one seems to know anything about. Back then, barely anyone in 12 had a television, so the Games were mostly hearsay. I’ve never seen her in the clips of the old shows, but then those early efforts are rarely featured, as they are said to be badly filmed and lacking in spectacle. My parents weren’t born yet, and even Mamaw couldn’t tell me much about the girl. I brought our victor up with Lenore Dove a few times, but she never wanted to discuss her.

You are on a high horse, mister. And someday someone will knock you off it straight into your grave.

While he bears a strong resemblance to Ampert, this is not why he looks familiar. It’s Beetee, a victor from District 3.

Ampert is neither a lunatic nor a liar. His father has accompanied him to the Capitol because he’s a victor. And therefore a mentor, assigned to coach his own child to his death in the Fiftieth Hunger Games.

“You’re Ampert’s father?” “I am. And no doubt you’re wondering why I’m here, Haymitch.” Beetee removes his glasses and polishes them on his shirt. “It’s because I’m being punished for coming up with a plan to sabotage the Capitol’s communication system. I’m too valuable to kill, but my son is disposable.”

“This isn’t your fault.” “But it is. Entirely. I took a risk. I didn’t suspect that I’d been found out until the reaping. The timing was calculated. If I had known, I could have killed myself, and Ampert would be safe at home. That is how Snow works.”

“Like in one of your songs, my ghost will hunt down your ghost and never give it a moment’s rest.” “Promise?” She sounds a little more hopeful. “Because if I could count on that, I think I could bear it. But what I can’t bear is . . . what if we’re never together again?” “We will be together always,” I say with conviction.

You stay alive, play your songs, love your people, live the best life you can. And I’ll be there in the Meadow waiting for you. It’s a promise.

A cannon fires. Somewhere, Beetee’s heart breaks into fragments so small it can never be repaired.

SOBBING

A sister is someone you fight with and fight for. Tooth and nail.

I feel grateful to Effie. “I won’t hurt you,” I mutter. “I know that,” she says. “I’ve known who you are ever since you helped with my makeup box. And I know your position could not have been easy.”

Outside, a plain pine box awaits. “They had hold of each other,” Mr. McCoy says. “Thought we’d let them stay that way.” Ma and Sid clinging to each other for eternity.

As I take off across the Meadow, she catches sight of me, cries out my name, and runs to meet me. I sweep her into my arms and spin her around and we’re both laughing and kissing like crazy. “Oh, Lenore Dove. Oh, my love,” I say. “You came back,” she says, tears streaming, but happy tears. “You came back to me. In this world!”

The raven. The unforgiving songbird. Repeatedly reminding me of President Snow’s crystal-clear message to me on my homecoming. That I will never get to love anyone ever again.

I would welcome death, if it wasn’t for my promise to Lenore Dove that I would somehow keep the sun from rising on the reaping.

Tough and smart, her hair in two braids then, reminding me for all the world of Louella McCoy, my sweetheart of old. And after she volunteered for the Games, that nickname couldn’t help but slip out. I didn’t want to let them in, her and Peeta, but the walls of a person’s heart are not impregnable, not if they have ever known love.