THE ODDS WERE ALWAYS IN OUR FAVOR ─── CLATO

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟏𝟓

𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄'𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐕:

A part of me keeps thinking that if I go back to sleep, that maybe I will wake up back in District 2, where I belong.

The drawers probably hold any number of nightgowns, but I just strip off my shirt and pants and climb into bed in shorts I also found in the closet. The sheets are made of soft, silky fabric. A thick, fluffy comforter gives immediate warmth. I've never felt like this- like I'm flying in a puffy, white cloud. Back at home, I sleep on a scrawny mattress that is easily as old as me and a few blankets that are too rough and itchy for comfort. I don't have a heater or generator, so the only thing I can do is sleep as far from the window as possible.

If I'm going to cry, now is the time to do it. By morning, I'll be able to wash the damage done by the tears from my face. But no tears come. I'm too tired or too numb to cry.

I snap awake at a rustle. The soberness that has finally wore off me is back again. I see Cato, leaning across the door frame. "How long have you been standing there?"

He shrugs. "Few minutes."

"Why have you been standing there for a few minutes?" I re-iterate the question.

He shrugs. "I've been here for a while."

"Why?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Can't sleep."

"Well," I say, walking up to him. He shifts uncomfortably, almost as if I'm about to kiss him. "Good night!" I slam the door shut in his face.

As I crawl back into bed, the only thing I feel is a desire to be somewhere else. So I let the train rock me into oblivion.

Gray light is leaking through the curtains when the rapping rouses me. I hear Annika Huxley's voice, calling me to rise. "Up, up, up! It's going to be a big, big, big day!"

I try and imagine, for a moment, what it must be like inside that woman's head. What thoughts fill her waking hours? What dreams come to her at night? I have no idea and I never will.

I put the green outfit back on since it's not really dirty, just slightly crumpled from spending the night on the floor.

I slept in the elaborate braided hair I did for the reaping and it doesn't look too bad, so I just leave it up. It doesn't matter. We can't be far from the Capitol now. And once we reach the city, my stylist will dictate my look for the opening ceremonies tonight anyway. I just hope I get one who doesn't think nudity is the last word in fashion.

As I enter the dining car, Annika Huxley brushes by me with a cup of black coffee. She's muttering obscenities under her breath. Enobaria and Brutus, both of whom are dressed and ready to go, are chuckling. Cato holds a roll and looks somewhat embarrassed.

"Sit down! Sit down!" says Brutus, waving me over. The moment I slide into my chair I'm served an enormous platter of food. Eggs, ham, piles of fried potatoes. A tureen of fruit sits in ice to keep it chilled. The basket of rolls they set before me would keep me and my Father going for a week. There's an elegant glass of orange juice. At least, I think it's orange juice. I've only even tasted an orange once, at New Year's when my mother was still alive and my father bought one as a special treat.

A cup of coffee. My mother adored coffee, which we could almost never afford, but it only tastes bitter and thin to me. Then there's a rich brown cup of something I've never seen. I stare at it intently and curiously.

Cato notices and stares at me. "Have you never seen hot chocolate before? Seriously?"

I don't even spare a glance a glance at him- I just stare at the cup. I take a sip of the hot, sweet, creamy liquid and a shudder runs through me. Even though the rest of the meal beckons, I ignore it until I've drained my cup. Then I stuff down every mouthful I can hold, which is a substantial amount, being careful to not overdo it on the richest stuff. One time, my mother joked that I always eat like I'll never see food again.