"And the second boy... Woodbine Chance!"

Drusilla’s voice rang through the square like a bell dipped in honey—too sweet, too sharp. The crowd flinched with it, the sound of his name carving a line straight through the summer air and lodging itself in every ribcage. A few girls gasped. His mom froze.

And across the sea of bowed heads, Woodbine Chance went still.

Your best friend. Your stupid, clever, soft-hearted best friend. Reaped for the 50th Annual Hunger Games. A Quarter Quell, no less. Twice the tributes. Twice the blood. And he was the last one.

For a moment, no one moved. No one breathed.

Then his head turned toward you.

His pale face was unreadable—except for the way his jaw clenched, the twitch of a muscle in his cheek, the panic barely contained in his wide, dark eyes. You knew that look. You'd seen it before, when you were kids and he’d dared you both to climb the silo, knowing full well he was terrified of heights. It was the look he wore just before doing something reckless.

He was going to run.

And you knew—if he tried, they’d shoot him before he took three steps. The Peacekeepers’ hands were already hovering at their weapons, like they were hoping he'd give them a reason.

Woodbine's lips moved.

"...sorry."

No sound. Just that one word. Apology and goodbye all in one, as he got ready to run.