 I chose this story because my children, I have two boys and they're in the middle school age and we have it in audio and we travel a lot with sports, very active in sports and we love this story and the other two that go with it. The reader is amazing and so I feel kind of silly reading because I might not do justice like she does but it's still a good part. And I'm going to read the end of chapter one a little bit and start of chapter two when it kicks off the story perfectly. I saw Gail looking back at me with a ghost in the smile. As ratings go, this one at least has a slight entertainment factor but suddenly I'm thinking of Gail and his 42 names in that big glass ball and how the odds are not in his favor. Not compared to a lot of the boys and maybe he's thinking the same thing about me because his face darkens and he turns away but there are still thousands of slips. I wish I could whisper to him. It's time for the drawing. Effie Trinket says as she always does, ladies bust and crosses to the glass ball with the girl's names. She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the ball and pulls out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a collective breath and then you can hear a pin drop and I'm feeling noxious and so desperately hoping that it's not me, that it's not me, that it's not me. Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smooths the slip of paper and reads out the name in a clear voice and it's not me. It's Primrose Everdeen. There must have been some mistake. This can't be happening. Prim was one slip and a paper of thousands. Her chances of being chosen were so remote that I haven't even bothered to worry about her. Hadn't I done everything? Taken the tesserine, refused to let her do the same? One slip, one slip and thousands. The odds had been entirely in her favor but it hadn't mattered. Somewhere far away, I can hear the crowd murmuring unhappily as they always do when a 12-year-old gets chosen because no one thinks this is fair. And then I see her, the blood drained from her face, hands clenched in fists at her sides, walking with stiff small steps up to the stage, passing me and I see that the back of her blouse has become untucked, hangs out over her skirt. It's this detail, the untucked blouse forming a duck tail that brings me back to myself. Prim, the strangled pride comes out of my throat and my muscles begin to move again. Prim, I don't have to shove through the crowd. The other kids make way immediately, allowing me a straight path to the stage. I reach her just as she is about to mount the steps and with one sweep of my arm, I push her behind me. I volunteer, I guess. I volunteer as tributes, tributes.