Over the next few weeks, I tried to convince myself that nothing had changed.
The incident at the Victor's Tour would be forgotten, just a brief moment captured on camera but ultimately meaningless in the grand scheme of Panem's politics.
I was wrong.
The first indication came three days after Wade Rankine's visit, when an unfamiliar Capitol-accented voice called out as I was heading home from the forge.
"You there! Thompson, isn't it?"
I turned to find a woman with pale blue hair styled in an elaborate updo, wearing clothes so vibrantly colored they seemed to hurt my eyes after the muted grays and browns of District 12.
A Capitol citizen, clearly, though not one connected to the Hunger Games—a journalist, based on the small recording device in her hand.
"Yes?" I answered cautiously, remembering my father's warnings.
She smiled, revealing teeth too white and perfect to be natural. "Venia Alcott, Capitol Communications. I'm doing a human interest piece on district life for the Capitol News Network." She gestured to a cameraman I hadn't noticed, lurking a few feet behind her. "Mind answering a few questions?"
This wasn't normal. Capitol journalists rarely bothered with outlying districts except during the Games, and they certainly didn't do "human interest" stories on random district citizens.
"I should get home," I said, trying to keep my tone polite but firm. "My family's expecting me."
"It won't take but a minute," she pressed, stepping closer.
"Everyone's talking about the protective big brother from the Victor's Tour footage. Such a heartwarming moment in an otherwise formal ceremony."
So that was it. The clip had aired in the Capitol.
"I was just looking after my sister," I said, careful to keep my face neutral. "Nothing special about that."
"But it is special!" she insisted. "It showed such... authenticity. Capitol viewers are absolutely captivated."
The cameraman had moved into position, I noticed, his lens trained on my face.
"What's your name?" she asked, even though she already knew.
"Jake Thompson," I replied reluctantly.
"And what do you do here in District 12, Jake?"
"I work with my father. He's a blacksmith."
She smiled as if I'd said something fascinating. "A traditional craft! How charming. And are you excited about the upcoming Games? The 74th should be quite special."
The question turned my stomach, but I knew better than to show it. "The Games are always... significant," I managed, choosing the most neutral word I could find.
"Indeed they are," she agreed, misinterpreting my hesitation as awe. "Tell me, Jake, how old are you?"
"Seventeen," I answered, suddenly understanding where this was going. My age made me eligible for the Reaping, a fact this woman was no doubt aware of.
"So you'll be in the Reaping bowl this year," she said, confirming my suspicion. "Any worries about that?"
Every teenager in Panem worried about the Reaping, but I knew the right answer. "I try not to think about it. The odds are in most people's favor."
She seemed disappointed by my stock response. "Well, thank you for your time, Jake Thompson. Perhaps we'll see more of you in the future."
The threat—because that's what it felt like—hung in the air as she and her cameraman walked away, already scanning the square for other potential interviews.
I hurried home, my mind racing. This wasn't some random Capitol journalist happening upon me. She'd sought me out specifically, knew my name, had shown the footage to Capitol audiences.
What did that mean for me? For the timeline I knew was supposed to unfold?
My father was stoking the forge when I arrived, his face darkening as I relayed the encounter.
"It's starting," he muttered, more to himself than to me. "Exactly what I feared."
"What's starting?" I asked, though I suspected I already knew.
He looked at me directly, his eyes troubled. "The attention. Once the Capitol notices someone, they rarely look away."
Over the following days, his prediction proved correct. Two more journalists approached me with similar questions. Neighbors commented that they'd seen my face in Capitol broadcasts.
Even our local Peacekeepers began treating me differently—more watchful, as if I were now something valuable that needed monitoring.
The forge became my refuge, the repetitive work of shaping metal providing a rhythm that helped calm my growing anxiety. In this small space, with the heat of the fire and the weight of the hammer in my hand, I could almost forget the cameras, the whispers, the sense that something had been set in motion that I couldn't control.
It was during one of these moments of focus that I barely registered the forge door opening until a throat cleared behind me.
"Excuse me, Mr. Thompson?"
I turned to find Mayor Undersee himself standing in the doorway, looking uncomfortable. My father emerged from the back room, wiping his hands on his apron.
"Mayor," he greeted with forced neutrality. "How can we help you?"
"Actually, I'd like a word with your son," Undersee said, his eyes flicking to me. "Privately, if possible."
My father's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "You can use the house. Eliza's at the apothecary, and Lily's at school."
I set down my tools and followed the mayor across our small yard to the house, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Mayor Undersee rarely made personal visits to anyone in the district, preferring to summon people to his office when official business required it.
Inside, he declined my offer of water or tea, getting straight to the point.
"Jake, I've received communications from the Capitol about you."
The words hung in the air between us, ominous despite their simplicity.
"What kind of communications?" I asked, glad that my voice remained steady.
"Inquiries," he said carefully. "About your character, your... appearance, your eligibility for the Reaping."
And there it was. The confirmation of my worst fears.
"I don't understand," I said, playing dumb. "Why would the Capitol care about me?"
Undersee sighed, suddenly looking much older than his years. "The Capitol has taken an interest in certain... telegenic young people from the districts lately. It seems the footage of you protecting your sister during the Victor's Tour caught someone's attention."
"But that was nothing," I protested. "Anyone would have done the same."
"Yes. Perhaps," he conceded. "But combined with your... well, let's be frank, your appearance... you've created interest." He hesitated, then added more quietly, "Interest that might manifest in certain ways during the upcoming Reaping."
I knew the Reaping wasn't truly random. The Capitol could manipulate it if they wanted someone specific in the arena. It's targeted tributes for certain consequences.
"Are you saying..." I couldn't finish the sentence.
"I'm not saying anything definitive," Undersee said carefully. "I'm merely suggesting that you prepare yourself for all possibilities. And perhaps consider how you might present yourself should certain events transpire."
He was warning me, I realized. Warning me that my name might be called instead of a random unfortunate boy. Instead of Peeta's. That I might be headed for the arena.
"I see," I managed.
"The Capitol appreciates certain narratives," he continued, his voice so low I had to strain to hear it. "Tributes who show particular qualities tend to attract sponsors. Your protective instinct toward your sister was... noteworthy."
Translation: if I ended up in the Games, I should play up the protective big brother angle. It might keep me alive.
"Thank you for the advice, Mayor," I said, matching his quiet tone.
He nodded, standing abruptly. "I've said all I came to say. Good day, Jake. Give my regards to your father."
After he left, I remained seated at our kitchen table, staring at nothing. The timeline was changing. I was changing it simply by existing in this world. And now, instead of Peeta Mellark, I might be the male tribute from District 12 in the 74th Hunger Games.
What would that mean for the story? For Katniss's survival? For the rebellion that needed to happen?
My father found me still sitting there an hour later, lost in thought.
"What did Undersee want?" he asked, concern etched in the lines of his face.
I told him everything—the warning, the implication that my name might be specially selected at the Reaping, the suggestion about playing up certain aspects of my personality.
When I finished, he sat heavily in the chair across from me, his calloused hands flat on the table.
"I was afraid of this," he said finally. "Ever since that damned camera caught you."
"What do I do?" I asked, feeling like a child seeking reassurance despite knowing far more about this world's future than my father ever could.
He looked at me, his eyes full of a father's helpless pain. "You prepare. And if the worst happens, you fight like hell to come home."
My mother took the news even harder when we told her that evening, after Lily was asleep. She wept silently, then wiped her tears and became grimly practical.
"You'll need to build your strength," she said, already planning. "I'll adjust your meals—more protein, more energy. And you should start running in the mornings, building your endurance."
"Mom—" I began, wanting to reassure her it might not happen.
"No," she cut me off. "We prepare for the worst and hope for the best. That's how we survive in Panem."
She was right, of course. Hope was a luxury in this world. Preparation was survival.
The following weeks took on a new intensity. By day, I worked in the forge, my father pushing me harder than ever, building my strength and teaching me to use various tools that could translate to weapons in the arena. By night, my mother taught me which plants were edible, which could heal, which could kill—knowledge that might mean the difference between life and death.
I began to see myself as a tribute rather than a spectator to these Games, analyzing my potential strengths and weaknesses.
Jake Thompson's body was stronger than Jake Carter's had been, hardened by years of forge work. I had good reflexes and decent endurance. My knowledge of the Games themselves could be my greatest advantage—I knew about the tracker jackers, the careers' strategy, the fact that water was always the first priority.
But I would be facing trained killers, children who had prepared their whole lives for this moment. And I would be changing the script of the story that was supposed to unfold—the story that ultimately led to the downfall of the Capitol.
Would Katniss and I both survive with the nightlock bluff? Would she even think of it without Peeta's influence? Would my knowledge of the future help or harm our chances?
These questions haunted me as I added running to my morning routine, as I practiced throwing knives at targets behind the forge, as I studied every edible plant in my mother's apothecary books.
The day before the Reaping, I ran into Peeta Mellark at the Hob, where I was trading some small metal tools for a length of rope I could practice knots with.
"Jake," he greeted me with his usual friendly smile. "Getting ready for tomorrow?"
The irony of the question hit me hard. In the original timeline, tomorrow would have sealed his fate.
"As much as anyone can be," I replied.
He nodded, his eyes showing the same fear every teenager in Panem felt before a Reaping. "My father made special cookies," he said, offering me a small wrapped package. "Says everyone deserves something sweet before..."
He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
I accepted the package, touched by the gesture. "Thank you. And Peeta... good luck tomorrow."
"You too," he said earnestly, not knowing that his luck might already have changed because of my presence.
That night, I shared the cookies with Lily, telling her they were a special treat for being such a good sister. She accepted them with delight, too young to fully understand the dread hanging over our household.
As I tucked her into bed, she asked innocently, "Will you be okay tomorrow, Jake?"
I forced a smile. "Of course, squirt. My name's only in there five times." Unlike Gale Hawthorne, whose name would be in forty times, or the other Seam kids who took tesserae to keep their families fed.
"Promise you won't go away?" she pressed, her small face suddenly serious.
I couldn't bring myself to make a promise I might not be able to keep. Instead, I kissed her forehead. "I promise I'll always try to come back to you. Now go to sleep."
Later, I stood outside our house, looking up at the stars—the same stars that shone over my world, over Jake Carter's life that now seemed like a distant dream. Tomorrow, I would find out if my presence here had irrevocably changed the story. If I was destined for the arena instead of watching from the sidelines.
A soft step behind me announced my father's presence.
"Can't sleep?" he asked, coming to stand beside me.
"No."
We were silent for a long moment, both contemplating the possibilities of tomorrow.
"Jake," he said finally, his voice rough with emotion, "whatever happens tomorrow, know that I'm proud of you. Proud of the man you've become."
The words pierced me deeply. He was proud of Jake Thompson, not knowing that I was an imposter in his son's body. Yet in these weeks of preparation, of fear and determination, I had come to care for this family as my own.
"Thanks, Dad," I said, the word feeling right on my lips.
He squeezed my shoulder. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow will come whether we're ready or not."
I nodded, taking one last look at the night sky before following him inside.
As I lay in bed, sleep eluding me, I thought of Katniss Everdeen, who would volunteer tomorrow to save her sister. I thought of Peeta Mellark, who in the original timeline would be reaped and ultimately help spark a revolution. I thought of Haymitch and Effie and Cinna, of the Capitol and its games, of the future I knew should unfold.
Then I thought of my new family—of Thomas hammering at the forge, of Eliza mixing her healing remedies, of little Lily who needed her brother to come home.
"If it's me," I whispered to the darkness, "if I go into that arena... I'll find a way to keep the story on track. I'll make sure the rebellion still happens."
It was a promise to myself, to this world, to the future that needed to unfold.
But first, I would have to survive the Games.