When I was chosen, everything went gray for a moment. I was only submitted for the first time this year. What were the odds? I think I should cry, or scream, or throw up. But I don’t. I’m just shuffle, aimlessly back home to pack. Aside from the necessities, we are told we can bring one item. Non-lethal of course, we won’t get the opportunity for those until we are well and truly in the games. As I search my room, my mind is still in a fog, reeling from the realization that I am going to have to literally fight for my life. I decide in that moment, that fate will have to help me out. I close my eyes and extend my hand. Feeling around my desk and shelves. Finally, my hand alights on something round, and metal. Still blind, I give it a brief inspection with my fingers. No sharp edges, so not something that could be considered deadly, I’d imagine. I open my eyes. “Huh…”

The next few weeks of training go by in a blur. I feel stronger, faster. But no one has seen my “survival tool” yet. If I’m being honest, I don’t know why I brought it. Fate or not, it was a stupid grab. I could’ve given fate a do-over. But no. Now here I am, while others have compasses, or canteens, or cords of rope. And I have… a tin slide whistle. Sometimes after lights out, I’ll take it out and look at it. I can’t play on it, of course, I’d draw too much attention. But I check the smoothness of the slide and the integrity of the whistle barrel. Everything seems in good working condition. The sad thing is, I don’t remember where it’s from. It’s not a treasured hand-me-down or a sentimental gift from a family member. I think I won it at a fair once. Tomorrow is the first day of the games, and I think I might be screwed.

My nerves are shot. My teammate, Eloise, looks at me and says “remember the plan”, like that’s supposed to mean something. As far as I remember, the “plan” is to run and evade the other districts for as long as possible. That’s not a *plan*, El, that’s *running*. The games begin and I’m off. In a flurry of branches and leaves, thorns and brambles, I am running like my life depends on it. And it does. Before I can stop to catch my breath and find some cover, I hear them. The barking and baying of the mutts. The games just started and they’ve sent out the mutts?! They didn’t get sent out until the end last time! I try to find a place to hide, but there are surprisingly few in this thicket. Finally, I camp in between a tree and a small boulder. It’s tight, and at the right angle, I’m not completely hidden. But I hope and pray this works. What feels like a lifetime later, I hear the mutts nearby. At first they still sound far away, but suddenly the padding of paws and the sniffing of noses feels right next to me. I can hear sharp claws tick ticking and slipping on the very rock I’m pressed against. I feel my heart in my throat. I reach for my knife, but I know it will be futile. Then, my hand feels a lump in my pocket. I slowly pull out the whistle. Maybe, just maybe. And I bring it up to my lips and pray. I blow as long and loud as I can on the whistle at its highest pitch. I blow until I feel my lungs are going to deflate. But even as I hear the mutts whine and cry and run, I don’t stop blowing until I physically can’t anymore. I can’t believe it. That actually worked.

I scramble from my hiding place and begin to run again. Just because I got rid of the mutts doesn’t mean another tribute won’t hear my whistle and come searching. But I miscalculated. I hear a group of tributes who are hunting together in front of me. As I gasp aloud, I hear a “What was that?” from the group. This is not good. I reach for the nearest tree and climb blindly, moving branch to branch quickly and gracelessly. I see them enter the clearing below me. They look around and one looks up at the tree. It feels like he’s looking right at me, squinting and cocking his head. Again, I feel for the whistle. This time, I hold it to my lips and do my best to imitate one of the birds I’ve heard as I ran through these woods. To my ear, it’s not even close. The tin makes the sound too sharp and the movement of the slide is too mechanical. Maybe a robotic bird could sound like that. I’m done for. But to my surprise, they move on. The one who looked my way didn’t even bother to climb or check the tree. I am stunned, but relieved. I begin to wonder if I may survive this.