“Now, ladies first!” Jollivette Turks, the announcer for District 4 calls into the microphone. She walks over to the clear glass ball. Filled with names. Especially mine. In those stupid, ugly, green shoes. Even though this is my first year being eligible, I have my name in 40 times. My family is very large, and I’m the only child willing to put my name in for money. My older sister, Isabelle, now 18, was willing, but I wouldn’t let her. Her legs were crippled in an explosion five years ago. Our mother died in that explosion. Then the Monroes, our neighbors, adopted us. They have eight kids, not including Isabelle and I. Jollivette’s hand reaches into the ball. It hovers for a second. Then she grabs one and struts her stupid strut over to the microphone. She carefully opens it, then smooths it out. “Isabelle Harriet!” She calls. I smile, happy I didn’t get picked. Then it hits me. Isabelle Harriet. My sister. I look over at her across the crowd. Her face is drained of color. She starts to push her wheelchair to the stage. I jump out. “Isabelle! Isabelle!” I yell. She looks back at me, mortified. Guards come and grab me. “NO!” I scream audimatically. “I VOLUNTEER! I VOLUNTEER! I VOLENTEER!” Jollivette stammers, “um, okay. Let’s have a round of applause for our new volunteer!” Isabelle looks at me. “It’s gonna be okay,” I say, but doubt it. I inhale, letting the guards walk me to the stage. I exhale as I walk onto the stage. Jollivette reaches for my hand with a cheerful smile. She leads me to the mic. Her stupid green jumpsuit and shoes make me laugh under my breath. “Well, what’s your name, dear?” Jollivette inquires, smiling. It annoys me. “Annabeth Harriet,” I mutter into the microphone. _Why did I volunteer? _I think. _There’s no chance of me surviving! And, the Emporor is so snooty! Don’t even get me started with the Obsidian Fortress! _Jollivette cheers into the microphone, “now, time for the gentlemen!” She moves toward the glass ball with the names of boys from all over the district. Jollivette spins her hand in the ball, then grabs a paper. She gets back to the mic, opens the paper, smooths it out, then reads. “Toby Mercer!” She cheers. I spot him in the crowd, absolutely mortified. He just stands there, looking around. I know him. We’re not friends, but we’ve interacted. At my mother’s funeral. He held me while I cried. He walks up to the stage, staring at the ground. I almost feel sympathetic. But I don’t. He walks onto the stage, expression blank. Jollivette cheers, “give a big hand for our tributes!” She claps, just her. Then stops, slightly embarrassed. “Well now, shake hands!” Jollivette calls. I grasp Toby’s strong hand. I know I hate him, but who said I couldn’t admire his appearance? Jollivette and the guards lead us into the Liberty Hall, into our imminent deaths.