There’s not one single person in the world who does not know of the Hunger Games. The first lesson every child is taught is to keep your head down and pray you don’t get picked.

But no matter how low you duck your head or how much of a good citizen you are, your chances are still 50/50.

Well, I just so happen to be that one lucky girl who gets picked to be shipped away to be slaughtered. Surprisingly, they allowed us to take one item with us.

Has it happened before? No.

Do I care? No.

And the first item I quickly got my hands on was a book.

It was old and and one page turn close to collapsing, but this thing has kept my sanity intact the last fifteen years Ive been on this Earth.

The book, The Boy Who Crossed The World, was a heartfelt adventure about a boy trying to go back home to his mother. Not exactly helpful, I know. But here’s the thing about books: they paint pictures and send deep messages, but they are also incredibly boring. One person who shows no interest with the arts of literature - which is by the way many - won’t be concerned about black ink on white paper. Even when that ink describes, in detail, how to survive in barren deserts to the arctic chill of the north.

Will it guarantee my survival? Probably not. But at this point, I got no options