Chapter Text
— Hey, Quigley... come on! Wake up, sleepyhead!
The only good thing about Reaping Day is that you get to sleep in a little longer. And even then, someone practically kicks me out of the dream world first thing in the morning.
— Come on, Quigley Quagmire!
When I open my eyes, I see my sister, Isadora. She quickly mutters something that vaguely resembles a good morning before moving to the other side of the bed, where she begins braiding her hair.
— Good morning to you too, sis.
I sit up in bed, hoping I might somehow be somewhere different from where I remembered falling asleep last night. Unfortunately, it doesn't take long for the smell of mildew in the mattress, the half-jammed window, the old wood, and the handful of other beds—some in even worse condition than ours—with children and teenagers still sleeping in them to remind me that we're still in District 12's Community Home.
Something shifts beside me, and only then do I find my second copy: my brother Duncan, squeezed up against the wall. Sometimes it still amazes me how alike the three of us are. I know triplets tend to look nearly identical, and I've gotten used to people mixing us up, but there are moments when even I can hardly believe it.
— You should stop moving around so much in your sleep, — Isadora says without taking her eyes off her braid. — One day he's going to end up flattened against the wall.
Like almost everything else in our lives, the three of us share a single bed in the Community Home. What we've come to call the "Quagmire Bed" is one of the few beds in the Home that's in... decent condition, to put it generously. It's not exactly large, but we manage, though I suppose I can admit that I might toss and turn once or twice during the night.
— Then it's his fault. Who told him to sleep on the wrong side?
Isadora raises an eyebrow, but a small smile tugs at her lips.
— So you're finally admitting you move around in your sleep? Duncan would love to hear that.
— But he can't, — I whisper, pointing toward the snoring. — He's busy fighting the wall in his dreams.
Isadora must have a sense of humor every bit as broken as mine—or Duncan's—because somehow she laughs. Really laughs. She muffles the sound with her hand so she won't wake him or any of the other children still sleeping around us.
The Community Home worked in a strange way, almost like a machine built entirely out of improvisation that nobody truly understood. I knew exactly which beds squeaked, which floorboards needed to be avoided, and what times the wind slipped through the cracks in the windows and chilled us to the bone. Every detail felt carefully catalogued somewhere in my head over the years.
The caretakers were no prize, either. They moved through the halls with heavy footsteps and watchful eyes, though they seemed far more interested in finding something to complain about than actually taking care of us. Pleasing them was practically impossible, and any attempt to show initiative or skill usually earned an unexpected scolding.
Some of the children could be difficult, selfish, or simply irritating, but by the end of the day, the three of us somehow always ended up smoothing over whatever conflicts arose.
From the outside, the Home was just another sad place, much like everything else in this district. Once you were sent there, you'd only leave it one way: at eighteen, when you were shipped off to work in the mines and expected to become "responsible" for yourself—even if that meant living on the streets—or before then, if luck happened to be on your side.
Either way, death was usually waiting for you somewhere down the road.
— Do you think they'll pick someone from the Seam again? — Isadora asked.
Her laughter had faded, replaced by a much more serious expression.
— Of course, — I replied. I didn't bother hiding the bitterness in my voice; she knew me too well for that. — They always pick from the Seam. It's more entertaining when the tributes are already half-starved.
At that moment, Duncan shifted in bed, startling both of us.
— And they still say the odds are distributed equally.
— Oh, sure! — I said, making sure to throw myself on top of him. — And the Capitol is full of kind people who love giving hugs.
The sound of both of them laughing softly made me feel like we still possessed a tiny piece of what peace used to be.
Rough.
Fragile.
But still there.
As usual, once we got up, we quietly pulled on jackets that had clearly seen better days—not that their condition mattered much this early in the morning.
Finally, we grabbed the little food we'd hidden in a corner of the kitchen and slipped outside as quietly as possible, heading toward the edge of the district. The fence was there as always—practically abandoned.
We still had time before the Reaping. Even on the most nerve-racking day of the year, traps don't check themselves. Besides, the woods are the only place where we can truly breathe and be ourselves without worrying about who's nearby.
As we crossed through the dry brush, Isadora began reciting a poem under her breath. Probably a new one—she loved writing them.
— "The choice is made. Only one life will be saved."
— That's a little dark, — I commented. — But I like it.
— Have you noticed all her poems are about tragedy lately? — Duncan teased.
— I'm simply adapting to my environment, — Isadora replied, arching an eyebrow.
Along the way, we stopped to check a trap that had, thankfully, caught a rabbit. I remembered the first time we'd built it. It didn't matter how skilled I was with the old dull knife I'd stolen, or how much Duncan had researched trap-making techniques—Isadora was the one who managed to put it together properly.
Duncan carefully stored the rabbit away while Isadora gathered a few berries from a nearby bush. Taking advantage of the rare moment of calm, I crouched down and began sketching a rough map of the area in an old, worn notebook I kept in my pocket.
It was one of the few things we had left from our parents.
They were the ones who taught me how to understand routes and chart paths, and I try to keep that alive as best I can. Maybe not as well as they did, but sometimes effort is what matters most. We returned to the district shortly before noon. People were already beginning to gather in the square—the poorer families in patched clothing, the merchants in outfits that looked just a little too clean, all trying to convince themselves they still stood above the rest of us.
And maybe, sometimes, they did.
You become eligible for the Reaping when you turn twelve years old, and each year your name is entered one additional time—assuming you're not poor. If you are, there's the system of tesserae, where you can receive extra grain and oil in exchange for putting your name in the drawing again.
My siblings and I have an agreement about tesserae: each of us takes our own. No depending on one another.
So far, we've each taken five.
Five extra entries on top of the mandatory ones.
It's the fairest way we've found to survive without burdening anyone else—or creating the kind of debt that comes back to bite when you have nothing left to give.
When we returned to the Community Home, most of the children were already awake, being ordered around by the caretakers while searching for something remotely presentable to wear.
Usually, clothes in the Home were passed down from the older children to the younger ones, which meant that most younger kids ended up wearing garments patched together in half a dozen different ways. My shirt, for example, had once belonged to a boy named James, who had been reaped at the Reaping before last.
As properly dressed as we could manage, we made our way toward the square in the center of District 12 alongside the caretakers and the rest of the children. The adults and families stood around the perimeter as always, while boys and girls between the ages of twelve and eighteen filled the center—separated by ropes, with the older ones at the front and the younger ones at the back.
That's when I saw her.
There, in the middle of the crowd, adjusting her pink dress, stood Violet Baudelaire.
The pearl of District 12.
It's not like I talk to her much. Although we share a similar story—both children of deceased merchants—that's where the similarities end. Violet and her siblings, Klaus and Sunny Baudelaire, were taken in by another relative who was also a merchant, something that, where we live, is both expensive and risky.
I have no doubt that she and her siblings know that as well. It's not uncommon to see them helping their uncle or managing on their own so they don't become a burden to him. It was during one of those occasions that I happened to meet her in the woods beyond the district's borders.
Our parents had only recently died, and we'd been sent to the Community Home, a place that never seemed to have enough food. Our only option was to find some ourselves in the woods. It was already getting dark when she appeared carrying an improvised bow and a hunting bag slung over her shoulder.
She didn't say anything.
She didn't need to.
We'd already seen each other at our families' funerals.
And with a single gesture, she set down rabbit meat and a few apples in front of me before disappearing back into the trees like a ghost. That simple act saved our lives. Ever since then, I've carried that debt like an invisible scar. Maybe it never meant much to her, but to me, it became a promise: one day I'd repay her, even though I still haven't managed to say thank you.
And I'd be lying if I said that was the only reason she catches my attention—something my siblings never fail to remind me of.
— Look at that, — Duncan whispered into my ear.
— Seems like somebody's found something more interesting than the Capitol's ridiculous accent.
— Shut up, — I muttered.
— Come on, Quigley. You've always had a weakness for sad, kind girls, — Isadora added.
— It's a very specific type, okay? — I murmured, adjusting my collar.
The three of us stayed together until Isadora had to separate and join the girls her age on the other side of the square.
The loudspeakers crackled with static.
The mayor stepped onto the stage.
The same speech as always.
The rebellion.
The punishment.
The Dark Days.
The Treaty of Treason.
Twenty-four young people.
One victor.
The rest?
Dust.
Only then did District 12's escort, Esmé Squalor, a woman far too cheerful for the occasion, walk toward the glass bowl.
— Ladies first! — Esmé announced in a bright voice thick with Capitol enthusiasm.
Silence. Every breath seemed to weigh a ton.
She slipped her hand into the bowl and pulled out a single slip of paper.
Please don't let it be Isadora. Please don't let it be Isadora...
— The female tribute for District 12 is... Violet Baudelaire.
My heart lurched. Not from surprise, but from a different kind of fear.
A quiet fear. A personal one.
The debt I owed her burned in my memory. Her kindness had given my siblings and me years we might never have had otherwise. And she did that without asking for anything in return. Not even a thank you. And now she was being dragged toward the arena.
As I watched her walk toward the stage, I couldn't shake the feeling that it was somehow my fault for never repaying her. Head held high, as though she'd known all along that her name would be called.
Strong.
Or at least trying to be.
The urge to look away—to pretend that some other girl was walking up there instead—hits me hard. When she stops beside a visibly bored Esmé, who seems eager to continue her little lottery of death, I catch a brief flash of pain in Violet's eyes.
— And now... the boys.
I watch Esmé's hand dip into the bowl once more and emerge with another name. Another sentence.
Please don't let it be either of us. Please...
— The male tribute for District 12 is... Quigley Quagmire.
For a second—
For one miserable second—
I'm certain I hear Isadora suck in a breath from somewhere across the square.
Duncan mutters a curse under his breath and closes his eyes, clearly considering something.
I think about running.
About bolting from the square.
But if I did, what would happen to Isadora and Duncan?
Would they put Duncan in my place because we look identical?
Would I even make it two steps before being dragged onto that stage anyway?
The absurd unfairness of my situation almost makes me smile.
And out of all the choices I have, I choose the one that will cause my siblings the fewest problems. After all, they may be the only people who'll still remember me a few years from now. Just as I'm one of the few people who still remembers James.
I look at Duncan, trying to send him a message.
Please don't do anything.
Maybe then he'd abandon whatever idea was forming in his head. I'd spend the rest of my life hating myself if he volunteered in my place.
Only then do I take my first step toward the stage.
Walking as normally as I can.