I rise before the sun, just like every morning. The sweet smell of motor oil hangs thick in the air, but I don't notice it. I'm not sure I even can anymore. I'm sure the black stuff is all that runs through my veins. I swing my legs on the dusty wooden floor of the three-room shack my piecemeal family recently moved into. My boorish stepbrother, a giant named Finn, is still dead to the world. I can't believe after all these years he can still sleep through the damn chiming from the train station. I choose to let him sleep; it doesn't bother me if he misses breakfast, because then I get his rations.

I tug thick denim overalls on top of my blackened white work shirt. This work shirt isn't like the fabulous ones I see at televised Capitol events. This is tightly woven cotton, sturdy enough to not rip, short-sleeved enough to not trap steam against your skin. I don't bother putting shoes on—I'm going to change right after breakfast anyway—and head out to the space that functions as both a kitchen and a communal area.

Carole's already fixed most of the meal, her brown hair swept back by an oil-stained bandana. I like my new stepmother; she doesn't mind that my voice is abnormally high or my skin is abnormally pale or my features are abnormally feminine. She listens to me when I confide in her, late at night when no one can hear us, that I see myself sketching and designing and creating clothes in the future, not piecing together trains and hovercrafts for the rest of my life. But such dreams are not possible in District 6, where everyone does something to keep the production of Panem's transportation systems running smoothly.

Breakfast today is a scoop and a half of plain oatmeal. This is good for my father's heart; the healer's herbs barely saved him the first time around. This is also good for my stomach; on a day like today, the less chance I have of regurgitating meals, the better. This is bad for Finn; his stomach is probably twice the size of a normal eighteen-year-old's, and he always complains when he's hungry. As if he wasn't used to it by now.

Carole and I eat in silence. My father has already been at the tracks for an hour or so; I keep insisting he get more rest, but the train boss, a hardened man named Nimmo Greenlaw, refuses to let him work less than the fourteen hours required of a man his age. I am just about to swipe Finn's portion of oatmeal when the big oaf himself lumbers into the room, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He groggily kisses his mother's cheek and collapses into the haphazardly patched chair beside mine, nearly breaking it again. He and Carole finish their meager meal while I stand from the rickety old table and place my dishes in the wooden wash basin.

"I'm going to dress," I announce perfunctorily, knowing that they know exactly how this day is going to go. I slip back into my shared bedroom and don the outfit I've had picked for weeks—because it's the only nice one I own. My father's old dress pants, taken in by my own hand, and a simple white button-down that Carole's late husband once wore. Finn would have gotten it, but his torso is far too long, so I received the hand-me-down instead. I have my own dress shoes, though; well, they're not so much dress shoes as Peacekeeper uniform shoes that my best friend "found" for me.

My best friend. Blaine. We'd known each other since we were rugrats. His mother and mine were friends—as close friends as you could be when you have entire households to run—before we born. I'm a year older than Blaine, but to look at us you wouldn't know it. He's so calm and quiet and strong that everyone assumes he's older. I don't mind, though; being young has its advantages in the districts.

I finished dressing in my finery and leave the house. I promised to meet up with Blaine at our usual rendezvous point right before we left for the district square. I maneuver through the crowded streets, grimacing at the hustle and bustle of the people in my village. The adults without children are, for the most part, excited, for they don't have to work today; the only reason my father went it is because he is the premier hovercraft mechanic in this part of 6, and there is some emergency he is needed for. The adults with children, however, are more subdued, shuffling their kids along like cattle toward the train station. The only reason 6 has a train system is that we are responsible for all transportation in Panem. It works for us, because our village, which is in the eastern portion of 6, is far from the Justice Building, which is several hours west. If we had to walk to the ceremony that is to take place tonight, we would have had to begin our trek two days ago.

I finally make it to the deserted alley behind the Andersons' house. Their house is actually a house, not a shack, because the Andersons are one of the few wealthy families in 6. Struve Anderson, Blaine's father, controls part of the train line that runs from 6 to the Capitol, so he rakes in a fair amount of profit from each run. On days like today, when the trains will be running all day, Mr. Anderson will be sure to earn quite a hefty sum.

I throw a few stray berries at what I know to be Blaine's window, smiling when his face appears behind the glass. He holds up one finger to keep me waiting, and then runs from the window. I automatically head to the back door, the exit that only Blaine and the Andersons' maid, Nitya Redpath, use. The former comes barreling out, wrapping me up in a warm, tight hug. "I missed you," he whispers in my ear.

"I saw you only yesterday!" I laugh, hugging him back.

I suppose I'm lying when I say that Blaine is my best friend. It is true that I spend more time with him than with anyone else, that I confide in him things I would never tell another soul, that I would thoughtlessly sacrifice my own life so that he might live on—but all that amounts to more than just best friendship. I can't come right out and say we're boyfriends; in a district like 6, such a bold proclamation will get us both sixty lashes apiece, and that's only because we're both underage. But when I look into Blaine's large hazel eyes, card my fingers through his thick black curls, snuggle deep into his warm tight embrace, I know for a fact that I love him far beyond the scope of best friendship.

Blaine tugs me by the hand to the metal grate on the back wall of the alley. Blaine and I discovered the abandoned tunnels behind this grate when I was ten. Blaine figures the tunnels were once used as a means of faster transportation between work stations for the men who labored as train and hovercraft builders, but there are other routes now that are more efficient. I refuse to go through them without him, because one day when I tried to go to our secret spot alone, I was nearly bitten by a large horde of rats. Sometimes I still get nightmares of waves of foul rodents devouring my eleven-year-old body.

So now Blaine always leads the way, crouching down to waddle through the tunnels first. I follow close behind, still jumping at every squeak and scratch I hear. We both have the path to our place memorized so that we could get there with our eyes closed. Soon enough, a short tube empties out into a small, grassy field, any traces of human interaction beside our own long since washed away by nature. We collapse into the grass, stretching our aching backs. Tunnel navigation was much easier when we were ten and only had to bend our heads down. Our hands automatically lock as we gaze into the sun. I sneak a peek over at Blaine and feel a pang of guilt. The crisp white shirt he was wearing had black smudges all over it, and his neat black pants were wrinkled and scuffed. "We shouldn't have come out here dressed like this," I murmur, not wanting to disturb the quiet around us.

Blaine just shrugs. "We'll leave in time for me to be able to change. You can too, if you want. I'm sure you'll fit into some of my clothes." Just the thought of being in Blaine's clothes makes me blush.

We don't speak again for some time, watching the sun climb higher and higher into the sky and listening to rabbits and squirrels rustle in the trees that line the northern edge of the field. I know we should get up, go back, get changed, go to the train station, but I can't bring myself to break the moment.

So Blaine does. "So...today's the day."

Tears automatically fill my eyes. Stop that, Kurt. There's nothing to cry about. I know what he means, of course. I turned eighteen last month. This is my last Reaping. My last chance to have to participate in the Hunger Games. I don't say anything.

Blaine rolls onto his side, taking our grasped hands into his free one and rubbing circles on the back of mine. "How many times is your name in the pot?"

I stare fixedly at the hazy gray sky above, refusing to see his reaction to my answer. "Thirty-five." I hear him let out a shaky breath, and my eyes prickle again. As an eighteen-year-old, my name only has to be in the drawing seven times, but my family, like so many others, needs more food, more supplies, more everything, so I bought more slips for tesserae. I don't regret it. "Don't...don't feel—Finn's name is in there fifty times." I don't know why I tell him this. My father refused to let me put my name in more than twenty-five times; I snuck back to the Peacekeeper in charge of the exchange of tessarae for another ten when my father was at the station. Carole was more reasonable; she allowed Finn, now an eighteen-year-old man, to put his name in as many times as he saw fit. I know it broke her heart to do it, but my respect for her grew that day.

I know Blaine, a seventeen-year-old, only has his name in the drawing the requisite six times. His family doesn't need tesserae. He is practically in the clear. I feel his breath on my ear as he whispers, "If you get chosen, I'll volunteer in your place."

I bolt upright, ripping my hand from his grasp. "No, you won't!" I hate shouting the field. It seems like a crime against nature. But I can't bring myself to care about nature right now, not when my boyf—my best friend is saying crazy things. "No, Blaine, no. Promise me, right now, that you won't."

Blaine just shakes his head obstinately. "I can't. I can't watch you leave for those damn Games, watch you on my TV, watch you die—" He chokes off, but I don't sympathize. I grab his face in my hands and drag it closer to mine. "You listen to me, Blaine Anderson. You and I...I know we're special. I know what we feel for each other. I am telling you that it doesn't matter. You cannot let your feelings for me, or—or my feelings for you put your life in danger. The odds are ever in your favor, Blaine, and we're going to keep it that way. Promise me that you won't volunteer." He stays silent. I shake him slightly, feeling myself start to fray at the edges. "Promise me!"

"I promise," he whispers, his eyes downcast. And then I lose it. I pull his face in even closer and lock our lips together, crashing us down onto the earth. I'm sprawled out on top of him, but he just wraps his arms around my waist and brings me in tighter. This isn't the first time we've kissed—no, that was when I was fifteen and he was fourteen, right outside the back door of his house. I was saying goodnight, and just as I was about to walk away, he grabbed my arm, pulled me back, and touched his lips to mine, just for a moment. I honestly don't remember how I got home that night, just that I was giggly and giddy for a day or two. Since then, we've only kissed a handful more times, and always in the meadow. Getting caught kissing another boy...I don't even want to think about those consequences.

But I kiss him now, because it's Reaping Day and he just said some pretty romantic stuff and I just said some pretty romantic stuff and we're in our secret place and he smells so good and I love him I love him I love him. We lay there for some time, lips moving past lips to explore cheeks and necks and noses and it feels so good. But eventually I feel the sun hot on my back, and I look up to see that it's nearly noon.

The last train leaves at 13:00.

"Blaine!" I leap off of him and point to the sky. He realizes my distress and jumps up, grabbing my hand. Without another word, we race through the tunnels, weaving our way through the familiar path until we stumble out into the alleyway. We sneak back into Blaine's house, carefully avoiding his impatient parents, and head into his closet, where we change into some of Blaine's other dress clothes. His pants are all slightly too short on me, but I manage to find a pair of blue slacks that just touch the top of my shoes. I match that with a lighter blue button-down, and then I turn to look at Blaine.

Who, of course is shirtless. I try to look away, but the sight of his strong back bent over, fixing his belt, is mesmerizing. I manage to rip my stare away right as he turns to grab another white shirt to put on. I whip back around and ask, "You ready?"

Blaine just laughs. "You know, Kurt, you can look at me. I mean, we're both men, it's not like we'll see anything new."

Face fully red, I turn around again. Luckily, his shirt his buttoned. "I know that! It's just...we're more than just two people of the same gender. We're two people of the same gender, with..." I don't finish.

So Blaine does. "With feelings? Yeah, I know. Come on, your father's probably wondering where you are." We leave his closet and go back downstairs. At least I'm not gawking in awe at the relative opulence around me, like I did the first few times I was in Blaine's house. I know that his house isn't nearly as gaudy as those in the Capitol, but compared to the shack I live in, it's a palace.

The Andersons are waiting at the bottom of the stairs. "There you are, son," Mr. Anderson says coolly. "Where were you?"

I know Blaine's relationship with his father is rocky at best, but if he hopes to inherit the family business when he's older, he has to play nice. "Sorry, Father. I was helping Kurt dress for the Reaping."

"Yes," Mr. Anderson sneers, his lip curling as he takes me in. I have no doubt in my mind that both Blaine's parents know exactly what we mean to each other, and how they feel about it—but they don't say anything, because turning me in means turning Blaine in, and that would not do well for their already sour public image. "Kurt, I believe you should head home now. I'm sure your father is waiting anxiously for you." I'm not quite sure what the man is trying to imply, but I don't like it.

I turn and nod goodbye to Blaine. "See you at the square," he murmurs in reply. I leave the house the same way I entered and race home. The streets are already mostly empty; everyone must have taken the early trains to the Justice Building. I skid to a stop in front of my house, where my father, stepmother, and stepbrother are all standing, worry written all over their faces.

"Kurt!" My father wraps me up in a hug, as if I might fall apart at any second. "Where have you been, kid? We thought maybe you'd forgotten, and you know the punishment for missing a Reaping." Oh, I know. A few years ago, one of my classmates, Jacob Israel, missed the Reaping. When we came back, he was gone. We never found out exactly what happened to him.

"Sorry, Dad," I say. "We should hurry, the last train is leaving soon." The four of us walk the mile or so to the train station, where we just make it onto the last third-class car. The benches are hard and crowded, but after all these years, we don't even notice anymore. Carole immediately strikes up a conversation with Blye Perthshire, the woman who runs the apothecary. The train begins to move, and more than anything I want to be holding Blaine's hand, to fall asleep with my head on his shoulder, to have his arms around me as my heart picks up speed with every passing mile. But he's in the single first-class car, where there are few others and chairs instead of benches and curtains on the windows. So I stare at my knees and just wait.

In the hour and a half it takes us to go from our village, Rime, to Antium, the city where the Justice Building is, I say nothing. Finn says nothing. My father says nothing. Only Carole, ever optimistic, can keep up a conversation. We disembark at the train station—which is so much nicer than the one in Rime—and are herded by white-clad Peacekeepers to the enormous square, where all the twelve- to eighteen-year-olds in 6 have gathered for the sorting. On the northern side of the square is the large wooden stage where Will Shuester, the future tributes' escort, stands alone next to a singular glass bowl with the height and circumference of a train wheel.

The sight of the lone bowl makes me pause. In the past six Reapings I've been to, there have been two bowls, one for female tributes, and one for male. I remember that this is a Quarter Quell, so something must be different. Above the stage hangs a large television screen, which currently displays nothing more than the Capitol seal.

I kiss Carole's cheek and hug her quickly before turning to my father. His eyes are glistening, and my heart breaks. Hugging him tightly, I whisper, "Don't worry about me, Dad. Whatever happens, I'm going to come home."

"Just what I like to hear," he laughs brokenly in my ear. "No matter what happens, no matter what you have to do, I'm still going to love you, okay? Just remember that." All I can do is nod. I let go of my father and leave Finn to say his goodbyes. I search the crowd around me for a head of curly hair. After a minute, I find it near the stage. I practically attack Blaine from behind.

He jumps and spins around, but smiles when he realizes it's me. "Hey, you." He hugs me back. "May the odds be ever in your favor."

I grin in return. "In yours, as well." Just then, there's a call from Will to separate into boys and girls and line up by age. Blaine and I walk hand-in-hand to the boys' side, on the western half of the square. I squeeze Blaine's hand one last time and leave him to go stand in the very back with the other eighteen-year-olds. Blaine is only a few rows in front of me. He gives me a final smile and turns to face the front. I stand next to Finn. We give each other a silent nod, for hope, for brotherhood, for love.

Will approaches the microphone and smiles. "Welcome to the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games!" He sounds so gleeful, but frowns slightly at the less-than-enthusiastic applause he gets in return. "As you all know, at the Reaping, we pick one boy and one girl from this district between the ages of twelve and eighteen to compete against those from all the other districts in the Hunger Games. But this year, the seventy-fifth year since the conception of the Games, is a Quarter Quell, so things are going to go a little differently. For an explanation, we turn to President Snow."

The seal on the screen disappears, and President Snow, standing on the Capitol stage on which the future tributes would be interviewed, comes into view. Beside him is a young boy dressed in white, a wooden box in his hands. The president smiles. "Welcome to the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games! These Games were initiated seventy-five years ago to remind all twelve districts of the Dark Days that plagued Panem. They are to remind us all of the districts' rebellion, and the Capitol's triumph. Each year, one boy and one girl between the ages of twelve and eighteen from each district are brought here to the Capitol to fight to the death in our arena. Only one can make it out alive, despite last year's anomaly." A small murmur ripples through the watching crowd as we all remember Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, the joint victors from District 12. "Every twenty-five years, during the Quarter Quell, the rules of the Games change slightly, to keep fresh the memory of the Dark Days, and their bitter end. On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a remind to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it. On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes.

"And now we honor our third Quarter Quell." President Snow lifts the lid of the box that the boy holds out, and removes from it a yellow envelope embossed with a 75. He opens the envelope carefully and slides out the card inside. He reads, "On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder that the districts' loss was greater than that of the Capitol, and that both men and women died in great numbers, every district must send three tributes, and there will be no separation by gender." The anthem plays, and the seal replaces President Snow's smiling face on the screen.

The murmur grows to a buzz as everyone realizes what this means. The tributes could be any combination. Three boys. Two boys, one girl. Two girls, one boy. Three girls. All of any age. I exchange a heavy look with Finn. Thirty-five other tributes is a lot more to defeat than twenty-three.

Will speaks loudly into the microphone to gather everyone's attention. "Alright, ladies and gentlemen, we shall now being the Reaping process." He sticks a hand deep into the bowl beside him, fishes around for a moment, and pulls out the first name. "Brittany Pierce." A loud roar erupts from where the adults stand watching. Brittany is a fourteen-year-old blond girl, I judge from where she's standing. She appears to be very...flighty as she dances up to the stage. It's almost as though she doesn't understand what horrible fate was just handed to her.

Will digs in the bowl again and pulls out another name. "Kurt Hummel."

I freeze. No, that can't be me. The odds were most certainly not in my favor—thirty-five slips is a lot—but with both the girls' and the boys' names in one bowl, thirty-five was hardly anything. I know for a fact Lartius Herriot, a fifteen-year-old boy from Rime, has his name in there no less than eighty times. I look at Finn pleadingly, hoping to see nothing bad there, but his face is full of sadness. My eyes rip from my brother's and search ahead of me, quickly locking onto a hazel pair that is full of tears. I see Blaine mouth something to me.

I love you.

Fighting sobs, I stumble my way out of the ranks of eighteen-year-old boys and up to the stage, where I stand next to Brittany. Will greets me, but I don't hear him. My face is as empty as my head is. I find Blaine's face again. I have never seen so much agony in one pair of eyes. I don't even bother trying to find my father; I know that what I'd see in his eyes would haunt me until my last breath. Instead, I try to soothe Blaine, to keep him together, but I can see by the hand clapped over his mouth that he has to physically restrain himself from volunteering to be a tribute in my stead.

But it turns out that he doesn't have to.

Because the next and final name that Will pulls out of the bowl is Blaine Anderson.