“For the interview, I am going to make you look as young and innocent as possible,” Cinna tells me the next morning. “We have to tone your reputation down after you got a 12 for the private session. So you are having no make-up, flat shoes, a dress that’s age appropriate. Here,” he hands me the suit bag. “Try this dress on to see if I need to make any adjustments before tomorrow. I based it on a friendly bird called a blue tit.”

I do. It is heavier than it looks. It is beautiful though. The skirt of the dress is knee length and layered with yellow fabric, which looks light and fluffy when I put it on. The bodice is thick and blue with sleeves which reach to my elbows. It does remind of a blue tit; I sometimes saw them when I was in the trees. They would never sing to me and were not particularly friendly, but they were pretty and did not cause harm.

“It’s beautiful,” I say. “Thank you.”

After an hour of learning manners with Effie, she realised that my manners were decent enough. Even though I do not come from an upper class area of District 11, I have always tried to be polite. It is a simple yet endearing quality that takes almost no effort with all the reward. That’s what Effie told me, anyway. She was pleased to see I do not need coaching.

So now I have a free day to do whatever I please. I have almost nothing to do: I have very few friends here and most of the ones I do have are discussing what to do in their interviews.

Thinking of friends reminds me of Plough. What happened to him? I don’t know if he is dead, or if he is hurt, or if he has been arrested, or if he is safe. I wish I knew. It’s horrible not knowing. At least my family will know that I’m dead if I die in the Games: I will never find out what happened to Plough. I remember how we met up on the roof and I feel nostalgic. I want to go up there again.

I go out of my room and into the hall. The District 12 rooms are on the top floor, so I am a little closer to the roof than I was last year. I go up the stairs at the end of the hall and am greeted with a warm rush of air as I step out onto the roof. It is a beautiful day and I almost forget about the awful interview I will have tomorrow.

I sit in the sun and suddenly feel very lonely. Even though Plough and I met under completely different circumstances, being here makes me ache inside. I consider leaving, but I decide not to. There is nothing else for me to do at the moment. Although a part of me is sad, I also feel strangely happy. This could be almost the last sun I ever see, I don’t know if the arena will be dark or tundra, and I want to see everything I can while I can. The sun, the stars, the moon, Seeder, ladybirds, mockingjays, the fields, trees, smiles, my siblings…

“Hey,” I hear a voice behind me. My heart jumps at the thought that it could be Plough: of course, it isn’t. I turn and see that it is Johanna. “What are you doing up here?”

“Effie thinks my manners are okay so I was given the day off,” I grin. “Is it the same for you?”

She sits down next to me and laughs.

“My escort gave up on me when I got out my axe. She said I probably remember everything from last time. I have no clue what I’m doing tomorrow; I can’t pretend to be innocent because they all know what I’m like now,” she sighs.

I don’t know what I’m going to do either. I don’t know if Haymitch has even planned anything, so we move on.

“I’ve been wondering,” she starts. “What did you do in your private session to gain a twelve? We haven’t really seen each other since then.”

A small, triumphant smile tugs at the sides of my lips. I’ve been wondering the same about her; she got twelve as well.

“I sang a song and dedicated it to Katniss.”

Johanna looks impressed.

“That puts what I did into proportion then,” she says. “I didn’t do anything. I walked in and didn’t know what to do so I just cried. I told all the gamemakers that I hated them and that I hoped the Capitol fell to the rebels. I’m surprised I didn’t get killed on the spot, to be honest.”

I am, too. Crying would have been fine. She would have gotten a low score and everyone would have thought she was attempting to repeat what happened before, but no one would really care. But because she complained about the Capitol, told them they were wrong, the gamemakers will try their best to kill her in the arena.

And me as well.

“I’d like to ask you something I’ve been wondering for a while.”

“Sure, go ahead,” she nods.

“Why did you ally with me? I’m the youngest and least experienced here. I’ve never killed anybody. I don’t even know why I’m here.”

Johanna puts her arm around my shoulder.

“That’s why. I know exactly how you feel. I’ve been the youngest in the Games before as well. So has Finnick. Although, admittedly, we did kill a few people, when we first got reaped we both had no idea what we were doing. We both knew we had no chance. And we hate the fact that you have to do what we did twice. Neither of us are the youngest anymore, and we both have killed enough to not throw up at the thought of it.” I blush. “We want you to live. We all do, all twenty three of us. It’s not something we agreed, or something we chose, but we all came into this assuming that we should protect you. You don’t belong there any more than a penguin belongs in a desert.”

“Are you saying you’re a cactus?” I joke.

“If you’re saying that because cacti are prickly and can fend for themselves, then yes.”

We both laugh. I always seem to bond with people on this roof. It’s nice.

The next day the prep team fluffs around me again. I wish each of them at least had a personality, but they don’t.

Cinna comes in and shoos them away like chickens. He hands me the beautiful dress. This could be the last dress I ever wear.

I pull it on. Cinna is made it easy to put on, I just pull it up around my body and Cinna zips it up. It is all so simple compared to last year; my dress from last year’s interview had to have things pinned onto it after I’d already put it on, plus my hair had to be done. Cinna has let my hair free: it is not messy, but not formal either.

When he is finished, Haymitch comes in. I feel relieved at the thought of someone, even him, giving me a little guidance. He is wearing a suit which has a mockingjay woven onto the coat pocket. Portia didn’t make anything complicated for him, but it is effective.

“I have something for you,” he says.

Cinna puts up his hand to stop him.

“Let me finish first,” he turns to me “The dress may seem quite heavy, so don’t put your arms above your head until…” he trails off.

“Until what?” I ask curiously.

Haymitch steps forward. He presses something cold and heavy into my hand. A handgun.

A shiver goes through my spine. I can’t imagine where he got it, or what I of all people am expected to do with it.

“President Snow is attending the interviews this year,” Haymitch begins. How did he find this out? “He will be sitting next to Caesar Flickerman. He won’t ask any questions. He is just there to “observe”. We think that he hopes that all of the tributes will be well-behaved if he is next to them.”

“What am I supposed to do?” my voice quivers.

Cinna puts a hand on my shoulder.

“You have to kill Snow.”

I am speechless. They know I can’t kill someone. But that’s why it has to be me: if a little girl who couldn’t even stab someone when her life depended on it shoots someone, that’s saying something about that person, isn’t it?

Cinna goes on, “When Caesar comments on your dress, twirl around. Then shoot Snow.”

It seems like an unusual order of events, but I nod. I cannot speak.

Waiting to go onstage is nerve wracking. The gun is in a perfect sized and perfectly hidden pocket that Cinna must have made with this gun in mind. Johanna gives my hand a squeeze. Nobody talks. I am terrified.

When we are on the stage, the interviews start. I don’t notice what each person says; I am watching Snow the whole time. I feel like he is watching me too, but then I tell myself I am just being paranoid. I can’t help but feel that he looks a little off. Not quite normal. I haven’t seen him in a year and people in the Capitol can change drastically in that amount of time: I tell myself that is the explanation.

When I stand up for my turn, I hear a muffled “good luck” from Haymitch. I don’t want to fail him or Cinna, yet I don’t want to have to do anything like this.

Shakily, I sit down across from Caesar. The audience sees how nervous I am, for whatever reason they think, and there is a fuss. That’s when I realise that the audience has been collectively crying throughout everyone’s interviews.

Caesar looks tired for a split second. Him being the professional he is, I wonder if anyone saw that except me.

“Hello Rue, it hasn’t been too long since I saw you last.”

I shake my head solemnly.

He is running out of things to say, and I am too anxious to help him out.

“You look even prettier than you did last year, though,” he says.

Is that the signal? “Yes, Cinna is very talented.”

“He is! The colours of your dress remind me of something.”

I answer before I stand up. “Cinna based it on a blue tit, a type of bird.”

I lift my arms above my head and twirl around.

A second later, I can smell smoke. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see fire. Real fire. The fire engulfs my dress, burning it up. Cinna must have done this. I hope that I won’t be naked, but he wouldn’t have made me naked on national television.

When I stop, I look down. My blue and yellow dress is gone. In its place is a dress made of black, smoky feathers. It can only represent a mockingjay. This is what I am wearing to shoot President Snow.

I close my mouth which I just realised was open, and see that Caesar’s jaw is gaping as well. Snow has kept his usual calmness. His eyes are deadly.

With intent, I say: “Even a harmless bird can become a mockingjay.”

I pull out the gun, the pocket is still there, and pull the trigger.

“For Katniss and Thresh and Plough,” I say.

I can’t help but hesitate.

Behind me, I hear a voice.

“For Annie!”

It’s Finnick. Is he supporting me? I turn my head and see he has a gun, too. As do all the other tributes.

Suddenly, I hear twenty three voices at once. Some people say things I can make out, some of the morphlings say things I cannot understand. Some people say names I recognise; most do not.

“For Marvel and Glimmer!” I hear Cashmere say.

“For Tweed and Jute! For Bobbin!” says Cecelia. I suppose she is talking about her children. I wonder if most people in District 8 are named after fabrics and sewing equipment.

“For Rue!” Seeder catches my eye.

“Maysilee,” I can just make out Haymitch muttering.

I don’t know how long they are going to keep this up. All of us are shouting names not just of martyrs, but of people affected by the Games in any way. I hear some of the people in the audience joining in: who’d have thought that the Capitol people could get so attached to certain tributes?

I only have three minutes in an interview and my finger is aching from holding onto the trigger. I catch Finnick’s eye – people tend to follow Finnick – and he understands. He pulls his trigger too, and the other tributes follow suit. I hope that they understand what I’m doing when I nod my head three times: it’s a count down to signal them when to shoot. Some of them get it, other don’t and shoot a second later.

But each and every one of us shoots.

I have my eyes closed. I can’t bear to look. It wasn’t just me, but it was still me.

I loosen my grip on the gun and open my eyes.

Snow is still standing there. I am confused; with twenty four of us shooting at once, some of them with target training, at least one of us must have hit him. I reach my hand out to touch him and my hand goes through.

He was just a hologram.

Caesar is speaking quietly and urgently into a communicator that was previously concealed up his sleeve. He tells the audience that we are going to have to finish there, and there is no mistaking the panic in his voice. We didn’t kill Snow, but we showed everyone that we intend to.

The curtain goes down; I didn’t even know that there was a curtain. It’s a lot dimmer now. I hear a hissing noise. I turn around; everyone else is in a huddle and I am alone. I begin to walk towards them when I smell something weird.

Johanna holds her nose. “Don’t breathe it in!” she yells.

Are they gassing us?

I cover my nose and mouth like Johanna instructed. So does everyone else, but it’s no good. One by one I see them fall. Are they unconscious or dead?

After a few seconds I feel drowsy. I collapse into blackness. It feels warm and dark and safe.