THE ODDS WERE ALWAYS IN OUR FAVOR ─── CLATO

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟑𝟏

𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐕

I lower my knives. I must be dreaming. Four victors? Four crowns?

But then I see Peeta relaxing in Cato's grip as he lets go of him. I watch, frozen, as Katniss lowers her bow.

And then it all sinks in.

A huge grin breaks on my face. I scream, out of joy, running towards Cato and jumping into his arms, my legs wrapping on either side of him. I cannot contain my excitement. Behind me, Peeta and Katniss are celebrating quietly, embracing each other in a loving hug.

All of us, alive. It doesn't feel real. I look at Fire Girl and she smiles. It's a small, small smile. Small but meaningful.

Cato staggers back a little, groans. He's smiling, but I immediately look down, only to see his leg seeping blood. I knew that the mutts must have injured him— but I didn't think it would be this bad.

"Oh my God— Cato—"

"I'm fine," he cuts off. But I know he's not. Before I can say anything, he stares up at the sky. "Look. We made it."

I follow his gaze. A hovercraft materializes overhead and four ladders drop, only there's no way I'm letting go of Cato. Not when I was this close to losing him forever.

I keep one arm on him as I help him up, and we each place a foot on the first rung of the ladder. The electric current freezes us in place, and this time I'm glad because I'm not really sure Cato can hang on for the whole ride. And since my eyes were looking down, I can see that while our muscles are immobile, nothing is preventing the blood from draining out of Cato's leg.

Sure enough, the minute the door closes behind us and the current stops, he staggers, and almost slumps to the floor unconscious.

He must have lost so much blood while we were all arguing what to do.

A thought strikes me. Is that why he was so keen on letting me win? Because he knew he might not make it at all, even without Katniss' arrow buried in his skin?

I shake the thought of. It doesn't matter. We're here, safe, victorious. That's all that matters.

My fingers are still gripping the back of his jacket so tightly that when they take him away it tears leaving me with a fistful of burgundy fabric. Doctors in sterile white, masked and gloved, already prepped to operate on his leg, go into action.

For a moment I forget we're out of the Games and I see the doctors as just one more threat, one more pack of mutts designed to kill him.

Petrified, I lunge for him, but I'm caught and thrust back into another room, and a glass door seals between us. I pound on the glass, screaming my head off. Everyone ignores me except for some Capitol attendant who appears behind me and offers me a beverage.

"He will be okay," the attendant says. "Look at their rapid chatter and laughter. It's an easy fix. Don't worry too much." Her words don't do much to calm me, but they make me feel at least a bit better than before.

I slump down on the floor, my face against the door, staring uncomprehendingly at the crystal glass in my hand. Icy cold, filled with orange juice, a straw with a frilly white collar. How wrong it looks in my bloody, filthy hand with its dirt-caked nails and scars. My mouth waters at the smell, but I place it carefully on the floor, not trusting anything so clean and pretty.