She is fifteen, and lives in a society where annual slaughter defines the place as taking on another whole different type of cruelty. Twistedness. This has been a running tradition in the nation of Panem.
Hated by design, the girl from what is known as the lapdog district has no name. No nickname can frame her, for she is indescribable. For once, the Reapings take a frightful turn when a single slip of paper changes the game. When this slip is drawn and the unforgivable is read out, after the blood of someone deserving of death and yet innocent is spilled, a pressing question remains.
How did that slip get there?
Explore the lies and implications of a double personality that threaten to tear this girl's life apart. But, more importantly, what else is at stake?
What do we call her?
She's a special one; I can feel it.
I'm bloody well certain of that. But what do we name her?
We are wasting our time. This girl will be known as the indescribable. It's this feeling I've got here, Astrid; it'd do you well to listen to it.
To the neighbour's dogs with your feeling, Cardwell! We must name her, and you know it.
No; I won't do it. Any name we give her now will grow into something meaningless. It is according to the prophecy.
So it's true then, that you've gone mad. I've heard naught about this 'prophecy', but there's been other senseless babblings from you, no less.
You can do whatever you want, Astrid. She stays without a name!
And without an identity too, if you had it your way. And I'll never hear of it. It's over, Cardwell.
(Gun shots fired).
That was the day both my parents died. My father, a 'mad' peacekeeper, by a couple of heavy-handedly delivered gun shot wounds. My mother, by a satisfaction that was readily crushed under a guilt she could not shake.
And all over naming me.