The sound of metal grinding against metal wakes me. The train is moving. I didn't feel it depart. Perhaps I was sleeping more deeply than I realized. Maybe the body knows when it needs rest before the mind does. My compartment on the train looks just like my hotel room: white and sterile. A large window overlooks a landscape passing by at a hundred and twenty kilometers per hour.
I approach it and place my hand on the glass. It is cold. I try to lift it, but it doesn't budge. I search for a handle, but there isn't one. The window is part of the wall, a deliberate design. There is no escape, no fresh air, and no sound of the wind. Only an isolated view behind unbreakable glass.
I think of the freight trains we used in District 12. Their doors creaked, their windows were shattered, and the air entered them as if it were free. We used to sit on the wooden floors, transporting hay and sheep. I used to hate the smell of the sheep. Now, I miss it.
The door to the room opens without a knock. Effie Mars stands in the doorway wearing a peach-colored outfit and a small hat that looks like a piece of rotting fruit. She tells me breakfast is in ten minutes in the main lounge and suggests I wear something more elegant. I look down at my black shirt and black pants, the same clothes I wore yesterday. I tell her this is elegant. She sighs, telling me I can do as I wish, but reminding me that the cameras will film our arrival in the Capitol and that I might want to look respectable. She closes the door before I can respond.
I look at the window again. Fields pass by, green, orderly, and well irrigated. They look nothing like the dry fields of District 12. Here, the Capitol grows its own food. It trusts no one. I think of Ella May, the girl from District 11. In her home, the fields stretch endlessly, yet the workers do not eat what they grow. I saw them once, on a trip with my father before the confiscation. They were thin with hollow eyes, harvesting the wheat that would fill the bellies of the Capitol. I wonder if she is thinking about that now, as she puts on her fine clothes for breakfast.
The main lounge of the train is larger than my old apartment. It features white leather chairs, glass tables, and crystal chandeliers. A buffet runs the length of the wall, filled with foods I have never seen before. Cato II is sitting in the corner, devouring a piece of meat that is almost raw. Three assistants sit beside him, taking notes. When he catches my eye, he stops chewing for a moment, stares, and then returns to his meal. Ryan Cross stands at the buffet, filling a plate with colorful shapes. He smiles when he sees me and tells me the food is amazing, asking if the small egg-like things are what people call caviar. I don't answer. I walk to the opposite window. It is the same. It won't open.
Ella May sits alone at a small table, clutching a glass of water with both hands as if she is afraid it will fall. Her eyes are fixed on the table, looking at no one. I sit across from her. She raises her head; her eyes are red. She cried last night. She asks if I am Beth from District 12, and I confirm. She tells me her name is Ella, though I already know. She looks at my hands, then my face, and remarks that I am not afraid. I tell her I am not. When she asks how, I think for a moment. What can I tell her? That fear is a luxury for those who haven't lost everything? That death isn't the worst thing that can happen to a woman? That the men in white suits took more from me than the Games ever could? Instead, I tell her I will let her know after the Games are over if we survive. She tries to smile but fails.
Ryan Cross sits at the edge of our table uninvited, talking about strategies and alliances. He suggests a trio from different districts for diverse strengths. He mentions his skills in swimming and fishing, then asks Ella what she is good at. Her voice is faint as she mentions agriculture. He calls it useful for identifying poisonous plants, then turns to me, asking what my skill is. I look at him long enough for his smile to fade. I tell him my skill is survival.
He laughs, but it is a nervous sound. He turns to Cato, asking his opinion on alliances.
Cato doesn't look up from his meat, stating he doesn't need them. When Ryan suggests he might, Cato meets his eyes with a cold, blue stare and repeats that he does not. Silence weighs heavy in the air. Ryan looks at me, I shake my head slowly, and he understands, returning to the buffet. Ella May whispers that he is scary. I tell her he is just a tool, and that she shouldn't fear the tool, but rather the person holding it.
After breakfast, I return to my room and sit by the window. The view has changed; mountains now appear on the horizon. The mountains of the Capitol, where the Districts end and the White City begins. The earpiece in my pocket vibrates. I put it in my ear. It is Voice 001, sounding slightly distorted. He tells me I am on the right track. He says that upon arrival, we will be placed in the Training Center, on the 47th floor, in room 4709. He tells me there is a ventilation shaft behind the painting in the bedroom and instructs me to use it on the night of the opening ceremonies, as they will send someone to meet me. I whisper, asking what they want from me. He replies "revenge," just like me. I tell him I want the President's head and nothing else. He promises I will get what I want, but only after I help them. The connection cuts.
I look out the window. The mountains are closer now, and behind them, the Capitol waits. I think of Roman's words: "Do not trust Voice 001." But who can I trust? Roman has his own goals. Effie Mars serves those who feed her. The other participants will kill me if given the chance. In the end, I trust a sharp knife and a back protected by a wall. That is all they have left me.
An hour before we arrive, Roman enters without knocking. He stands at the door, looking at me, then the window, then back at me. He asks if I know why the windows in Capitol trains don't open. I suggest it's because they're afraid we might jump. He says it's because they're afraid we might breathe air they didn't manufacture. He walks to the window and places his hand on the glass, explaining that everything here is designed to make you dependent on them. The air, water, food, even the light. He says people think they are free, but they are breathing the Capitol's lungs.
He asks if I have considered the President's offer. I tell him I refused it. He asks if I have considered the offer from Voice 001. I look at him but don't answer. He says it is fine and tells me not to say. But he leaves me with one thought: in the Games, there is always a window that opens, not in the wall, but in the rules, in their expectations, and in their arrogance. He tells me to find it and use it. Then he leaves.
I remain alone, looking at the window, at the mountains that are now very close, and at the White City looming on the horizon. The window does not open. But the doors will open soon. And then, my work will truly begin.
The train slows. The sound of wheels on the tracks changes as we enter the station. I stand up, put on my black jacket, and touch the photo and the earpiece in my pockets. The door opens and Effie is there, telling me we have arrived. I follow her. In the hallway, the others join us. Cato II is in the lead, followed by Ella May, with Ryan Cross beside me. There are new faces from other districts, forty-eight faces, forty-eight bodies, forty-seven potential graves. I am the forty-eighth.
The train stops. The doors open onto a platform of white marble. Thousands of spectators cheer. The lights are blinding. The cameras devour us. I step outside. The air is heavy with the scent of perfume, food, and the blood to come. I look for a window that opens. I find none. But my hand is clenched around a small knife I hid in my boot. And that is enough.