In the morning I help my father and two brothers make the bread dough while Mother does the laundry. After that, we let it rise, and then we put it in the big stone oven.
A typical Mellark morning.
Today wasn't; it was Reaping day.
Every year a male and female 'tribute' is chosen to take part in the annual Hunger Games, where they fight to the death until one tribute remains. That tribute is then crowned victor and bathed in riches.
Really, winning means living, and losing means you inevitable death.
Still, I wasn't going to lie in bed until I got dragged out of bed by my brothers, or worse, my mother.
So I got up and went downstairs to see that only my father was up.
"Morning Dad," I said as normally as possible.
He replied by asking, "You nervous Peeta?"
"Were you ever nervous on Reaping day? I know the answer, and its yes, isn't it Dad?"
"Sure is, but you already knew that. You want some breakfast? Its burnt croissants." he asked in a talkative.
"Maybe just one. I should eat and they smell good." I said this politely, because I didn't know how it would affect Father.
It apparently didn't because he went on in his chatty tone. "It won't be you Peeta. You're only sixteen, and you only have six little slips of paper with your name on them. It won't be you," he repeated.
"I sure hope Dad," I said at the same moment Mother came into the room followed by my tired brothers.
"Morning," both of my brothers said, which me and my father both copied.
They both had on croissant each, just like me, then Mother told us to go get dressed.
We didn't talk upstairs, we just dressed in silence, but that was fine by me. I had a feeling in my gut that something bad would happen today.
I just didn't know what.