(ANIL'S POV)

A cannon booms. Jonas falls down into the grass, dead. I can't take it anymore. I can't believe she's gone. Really gone.
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Sweat drips down my hot, tear streaked face. It was just a dream, Anil." I tell myself. Just a dream. 
Ever since Boston and Jonas left, nightmares have dragged me in and out of Hell, some that are almost impossible to escape from.  And every time I think of them, the tears stream unstobbably.

"Anil! Reuben is mandatory live streaming!" In the distance, I can hear my mother's damp, distressed voice as she wakes me from a restless and painful sleep.  My family and I have really struggled during Boston and Jonas's abscense.  I've never gone through something this hard before.  I hate it. 

With a twig brush in hand, I meet my parents in the sitting room where our progective television portrays the Capitol image of Rueben Shutters, the Hunger Games announcer.

"Good morning citizens of Panem!" He says. "I am honoured to live stream the scores of this year's tributes private sessions. Let's start with District One!"

I don't care about the scores. Drowning out Rueben's voice, I turn my thoughts to what Boston and Jonas might be doing right now.  Probably anticipating and impatiently waiting to figure out their scores.  Trying to decide which tributes are more enemy than others. 

I jump back into reality when Rueben says, "Jonas Mason, with a score of..." He squints at the page of numbers on his desk and says, with a shocked expression, "a score of nine!"

The words take a while to register in my head until I'm able to fully understand what he said.  I join my family in a riot of jumping up and down with joy.  We quiet down just in time to hear Rueben make an non-script remark:

"Wow, Jonas! You should be very proud." He winks. And I can picture Jonas with a smile pasted on her face.  Laughing.  Happy and joyful.  I sigh. Wishing I could share this happy moment with her.
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Forgetting what was going on, my parents and I got caught up in a wiff of celebration. We all believed in Jonas, no doubt. But a nine. A nine was incredible. I could care less that this number was out of twelve. Jonas was one in a million. Reuben's booming voice brought our attention back to the screen and the room quickly got quiet.
"Boston Mason, with a score of... seven." The rest of the tribute's scores all go with a blur. Someone got and eight, someone else got a five. I tuned it out completely and sat in shock as Boston's score echoed in my ears. A seven? I thought. What did he do? And then it hit me. He's been focusing too much on Jonas and less on himself. They can both do this. My mind seeks all the positivity it can get. One number means nothing. One number out of twelve means nothing.