{A Baitwell Farewell}

[while we're on the subject
could we change the subject now?
i was knocking on your ear's door, but you were always out]

In his frequent moments of panic, Reef had played over and over again in his head what it would be like if his name were called at the Reaping. If he would be dragged up to the stage, full of dread, to take his place as one of that year's damned. For a short time, he'd seemingly had a reprieve; those months in the Capitol as a servant hadn't exactly been ideal, but they'd certainly been better than the alternative. Now, though, he was back; his plan had failed, and that meant countless more sleepless nights shivering as he imagined the very, very possible.

For a minute that Reaping day, he thought they'd called his name. Of course it didn't make sense; they were reading off the girls first, after all. But as soon as the surname Baitwell reached his ears, his eyes widened, and he was sure that a Reef had preceded it. Reef Baitwell. Reef Baitwell, District Four male tribute of the 67th Hunger Games. What did he do? Did he move? Could he move? He didn't trust his legs to carry him where he needed to go, didn't trust them not to collapse beneath him the moment he took his first step. Reef Baitwell, you'll be dead in a week.

Only a moment later, however, he realized his mistake—his sister was ascending the stage, not him. They had called Siren Baitwell, not Reef. Siren would be a tribute. Next, they called a boy he didn't know—he was safe. His relief was nearly palpable, but it was tainted by guilt, guilt because his sister was going off into a death chamber and he was feeling relieved. But she can handle it. Far better than I can; she's trained for it, after all. It's what she wants. It's what they all want. And that was indeed what made Reef so very, very different from his siblings, so very different from the other Careers he trained with. They wanted this, while Reef had chosen to lose his tongue rather than face odds of a thousand to one.

The family met Siren in the Justice Building, and it was plain to see that Ray was more of use to her here. Reef watched as his two elder siblings embraced, joined by their shared passions and memories and ambitions, more alike in this moment than ever before. The youngest Baitwell child hung back, unsure of himself, unsure of whether to congratulate Siren or (and this option seemed more appropriate to him) console her. Finally, she looked at him. "Reef… come here?" After a moment's pause, Reef instinctively reached into his jacket pocket to pull out the notepad and pen that he always kept with him, for when the words that he could no longer speak were necessary.

They weren't there. Alarmed, he checked again, and again, in each of his pockets—nothing. In the chaos of Reaping morning, the former avox must have forgotten to grab his most important accessory. Without it, he could not speak. He could not wish Siren luck. He couldn't even say goodbye. Squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth, the fifteen-year-old instead wrapped his arms around the sister he wished he knew better, whom he wished knew him better, and hoped this simple action would say everything his lips could not. Come home, Siren. Come home. If he tried hard enough, Reef could fool himself into believing that he wanted her to win solely because he loved her. But deep down, it wasn't true. Deep down, there was a part of him that wanted Siren to win because if she did, then perhaps at last the attention would be on someone else. Perhaps at last Siren could take the attention he'd received for his failed ploy, about which only an incarcerated, dirty criminal knew the truth.