The Hunger Games (Peeta's Point of View)

Chapter One

Everyone's asleep when I wake up. I stare at the ceiling. I don't want to go back to sleep. I don't think I'll even be able to. Today is the day of the reaping. Could I be chosen?

            I'm not sure. Mentally I try to reassure myself. I've only put my name in tesserae twice. And I'm sixteen, so that makes a total of... Fifteen. How many people are there in District 12? I can't think. A lot. There are lots of families worse off than we are who've put their names in for tesserae more times than I have. So there's only a slim chance of my name getting picked. Right?

            I can't focus much. Random thoughts crowd my mind and I can't push them out like I want to. Thoughts like: the bed's too warm; what time is it; the bed's too cold.

            Knowing there's not much else I can do I push back the covers. It's cold out, and I've only got a cotton shirt and shorts on. I need warmth. The kitchen, perhaps? I don't expect anyone to be in the kitchen at this time, but the warmth I feel as I approach it shows there is. I hope it's father.

            I knock on the door as not to alarm the person and walk in. It's even hotter in there, but the warmth is welcome. I see a batch of freshly-baked cookies to one side of the oven, my father huddled in front of them, moving them from the tray to a plate. I reach out to grab one. They're warm and gooey and they taste good- as good as they can do seeing today is the reaping.

            All right, Peeta?" He smiles at me, yet he looks how I feel. He looks like this every reaping, even though almost every kid in our District has put their name in more times than me.

            "Mmm." I reply through a mouthful of cookie.

            "You'd better eat up. Today's a big day." He gestures towards a small loaf of golden-brown bread. He breaks it in half and gives a half to me. I mutter a thanks.

            "You know I probably won't be picked, right?" I flash him a look.

            "Of course." I needed that answer for my reassurance, let alone my father's. I let my gaze wander around the kitchen. There are two ovens and a maze of counters. You'd think that being the only bakery in our District would mean a high demand for our goods, and a lot of hard work but no- sadly, not many people can afford it. Instead, I spend most of the day trading down in the Hob, helping my father bake or clean or feeding the pig. It's not that rewarding but it's better than most of the kids' lives around here. We'd discount the goods but mother won't let us do it until the end of the day.

            I help decorate the cakes quite a lot as well. I enjoy that. Father says I have a talent. I'm not sure, but I like to think so, considering father's been doing it for longer than I have, and my cakes have turned out better than his on quite a few occasions!

            I set my bread back down on the counter; I ate only a mouthful. Father's bread tastes warm and soft but I can't eat. I catch him looking at me concernedly. Sweat lends his face a glossy sheen but I notice his fingers are a contrasting matte thanks to the flour coating them. His eyes are a dull blue and look heavy. His lips are turned down. A slight sigh emanates from those same lips.

            "Do you... Want to go down to the Hob? I've got a few pastries from yesterday I couldn't sell-" he picks up a basket of goods- "and a glut of rolls." He reaches for a bag off the shelf and tips the contents into the basket with the rest of the food. The basket is now full. He does this every reaping; gives me a lot of items to sell in the Hob. I think he knows it takes my mind off things. I'm grateful for that. I think it keeps his mind off things too. "Trade them for some nice food, Peeta, for the celebrations tonight."