Filed To Story: Sunrise on the Reaping Book PDF Free
After drying myself with the big cushy towel, I pull on the underwear and the plain black shirt and pants left for me, and slide my feet into a new pair of boots. As I open the bathroom door, I try to decide if I should feel embarrassed about my outburst, and realize I don’t give a hang what anyone thinks anyway.
The apartment, which has a strange, impersonal quality, has been decorated by someone whose taste runs to fluffy things and burnt orange. The kitten and puppy knickknacks seem at odds with the bars on the windows. I follow my nose to the kitchen, where Mags, Wiress, and Wyatt sit around the table, eating.
“Join us,” Mags says. “Your friend’s in her bath now.” I’m too tired to correct her about the status of my relationship with Maysilee –
classmate seems more appropriate. She ladles out a giant bowl of what is, in fact, bean and ham hock soup.
“Mags ordered this specially from the kitchen,” says Wiress.
“I did. It’s comforting, I think.” Mags sets the bowl in front of me.
“It is.” I snuff up the steam, thinking about my twin sisters, and Pa, and Mamaw. And now Louella. I take a spoonful and let the taste of home course through me, strengthening me for what’s to come. “What is this place anyway?” I ask.
“It’s an apartment designed for temporary rentals. They’ve reserved it to hold the tributes this year,” says Mags.
“We stayed in barracks last year, all twenty-four of us. This is more private,” adds Wiress.
“Wouldn’t call the bathroom private. I hung my towel over the camera.”
“Those were just installed for the tributes. It’s impossible to tell when they’re watching,” says Mags. “But it will all be recorded.”
Wyatt pushes back from the table. “Guess I’ll get my bath now.”
I want to say,
I’m sorry about what I said earlier. About your pa taking bets on you. But I haven’t got the energy, so I let him go without a word.
My mentors let me eat in silence – soup, white bread and butter, and a big piece of peach pie to finish. I’m afraid they’re going to launch into a strategy session, but Mags only says, “Why don’t you go to bed now, Haymitch? We can talk in the morning.”
She takes me to a room with two beds covered with fuzzy orange spreads, each with a pair of pajamas on it, and bids me good night. I change, slide in between the sheets thinking I’ll never fall asleep, and go out like a light.
Lenore Dove says my dreams are like windows into my mind, too clear to need interpretation. Which is a nice way to say really obvious. Tonight, they center on fearful things that have happened – blown-up heads and chariot crashes – and fearful things I dread will happen in the coming days. Since I don’t know exactly what I’ll encounter when the gong sounds to start the Games, my brain borrows from past arenas. Weapons. Starvation. Mutts. The first two are ancient evils, but muttations, or mutts for short, are genetic atrocities created in the lab to entertain the blood-hungry Capitol audience. Like the face-eating weasels or, in Wiress’s arena, the shiny silver beetles that swarmed the tributes, suffocating them. My brain fixates on the latter.
As the beetles suck the oxygen from my lungs, I wake up gasping. Wyatt snores in the other bed. That alone makes me think I was right about him not being my ally. How’s he going to stay hidden in the arena if he’s sawing logs like that? Of course, he was fake-snoring on the train when he eavesdropped on me and Louella. I look at him hard, but he appears to be dead to the world for real.
I could get up but I stay under the covers, grateful for some time to collect my thoughts. Things have unfolded so fast. I still can’t completely wrap my head around the fact that Louella’s gone. And now I have an offer from Ampert, who I couldn’t help but like. I’m intrigued by his idea of a non-Career pack. I wonder if he’d take Wyatt and Maysilee as well. He doesn’t seem too particular. The tributes from Districts 7 and 8 are nothing special. He must be going for quantity over quality. Although 11 . . . that might be a game changer. . . .
Still, I don’t know about teaming up with them. Maybe I’ll ask Mags what she thinks. Funny to have someone from 4 – a Career – as a mentor. Although she must’ve been a tribute early on and maybe there weren’t always Careers. As for Wiress . . . I shouldn’t judge her so harshly. If I could outsmart everybody the way she did without lifting a finger, of course I’d do it. But that seems more like something Ampert could pull off.
The smell of fried food gets me out of bed. I pull my clothes from last night back on and head to the kitchen. Mags and Wiress sit like they haven’t been to bed, but the food has turned over. Big covered dishes of eggs, bacon, and crusty disks of potatoes set my mouth watering.
“Good morning, Haymitch,” says Mags. “Please, help yourself.”
I pile my plate high and stack a second with buttered toast and jam, pour glasses of juice and milk, but pass on the coffee. Again, they let me eat in peace, which I appreciate. Food always picks me up, so after a couple of platefuls, I think I might be able to survive the day. It’s going to take a lot of energy to face the Careers, especially Panache. Pretty sure he thinks I owe him a chariot.
I’m sipping sugared hot tea when Maysilee comes in, dressed exactly like me, except for her necklaces. All in black, with her hair pulled from her face and her riding-crop marks, there’s something tough about her. Or maybe she’s always been tough, but the ruffles and bows just made her seem snooty. She’d look out of place behind the candy counter, which she clearly loathed. What did she dream of doing instead?
“Good morning, Maysilee. How did you sleep?” asks Mags.
“Better than the night before.” Maysilee pours herself a cup of black coffee and wraps her hands around it.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask.
“I’m not a breakfast person.”
You can see why she drives people nuts. If there’s breakfast available in the Seam, everybody’s just pleased to see it. I spread jam on another piece of toast. “That’s going to come in handy in the arena. Especially if you’re not a lunch or supper person either.”
“If you can manage to get a bit more down in the next few days, it would be a good thing,” says Mags.
Maysilee thinks about it, then serves herself a strip of bacon and takes a tiny bite. Not with her fingers, of course. I bet the Donners eat popcorn with a knife and fork.
Wyatt joins us, sheet creases in his face, also dressed in black.
“Nice outfit,” I say, trying to lighten things up between us a little.
“It’s the same as yours,” he says defensively.
“Do we have to go around dressed like triplets?” asks Maysilee. “It was bad enough being a twin.”
The Donner girls have a wide selection of matching outfits. “Thought you liked that,” I say.
“My mother likes that,” she corrects me.
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