CATO'S POV

I jolt upright from my sleep and claw my blanket off my body, feeling it suffocating me like a hand closing tight around a single paper slip from a reaping bowl. My arms find their way around my knees as I rock my body back and forth in sheen sweat.

Panting hard, I clamber out of bed and open the window to breathe in the cold air. I inhale as much as I can until I ache. My lungs do this until I feel like they're about to explode inside my chest.

They picked you; it was you, the words of my dream echo over and over inside my head. You never had any odds in your favor to begin with, it was always you.

I look onto the dimly lit street to find the hushed voices and sleepy murmurs of a line of careers walking toward District 2's training center. Although it's illegal to train, the Capitol doesn't pay enough attention to stop it.

Here in 2, we're known for using swords and knives as our weapons because of our masonry and peacekeeper headquarters. We keep them protected with our forces, and happy with steel to build their pretty buildings. They pay us back by sparing our lives.

Of course, the careers would use every last minute of training they could, even on the reaping day. Rest is a foreign concept to them. Or to their parents, I should say. Districts 1, 2 and 3 are known for their career children, and the name lives up to itself because they begin training for the Hunger Games at the age of five, as if it were a job. They are taught how to build shelter, find food, and fight and then sent in to volunteer.

I must have been so damn lucky to be born in any of these three districts.

Three of my siblings, first Jacob, then Augustus, and finally Megan, have already been forced to volunteer by my father, a victor himself. He says it's to regain back honor and revenge for his father who died in the Games.

Today, I am next. In 6 years, it will be Michelle's turn. My tiny, baby sister forced into an arena where nobody knows if she will be the last to make it out.

It disgusts me so much that I slam the window shut, causing Mitch to stir in my mother's arms and clutch her teddy bear tighter, with its stuffing poking out of its tummy and one missing eye.

She peeks up from her blanket and asks in her tiniest voice, "Cato?"

"Baby," I compose myself and say softly. "Go back to sleep." I brush her blonde curls out of her eyes. "But Cato, what's happening today? I heard mommy and daddy arguing last night about you going somewhere."

My voice tightens and I swallow the lump in my throat. "I'm not—"

"Cato," my mother's voice quivers. I know she's been awake the whole time and got no sleep. She has no control over how my dad will send me to the Games today, but Mitch, the last thing she can shield, will not be told anything about it.

"Go downstairs and help your father with breakfast. I'll be there in a minute to talk to you about… About school," she quickly says.

I stay quiet, knowing her intentions for Mitch are helpless and my father will always find a way to send us, but do as my mother says. Mitch will be sent to my grandmother's house for the day. My grandma is too sick to attend the reaping, and everybody in 2 knows that Mitch makes a loud fuss every year; therefore they won't care if she doesn't attend.

I nod and go to the bathroom, hop in the shower and punch a million different buttons to adjust the water. I hardly know what any of the buttons mean, but I don't care if it's freezing cold or boiling hot. I scrub the sweat off my skin and run my soapy fingers through my hair. Once I rinse, I step out to the closet room with a towel around my waist.

It's filled with too many fancy dresses and suits for seven people, but I pick the training suit I've been so familiar with for years. I put it on and it fits tight against my muscular chest. I slide on my combat boots, which are too tight for my big feet, and walk down stairs.

My father, sipping his regular black coffee, as bitter as his personality is, reads the newspaper at the table. It's like any other morning for him. He doesn't care if I die; all he cares about is honor and is too foolish to believe I'll make it out.

I ignore him and brew my own coffee whilst frying eggs and pancakes. I fill my plate up and sit in front of him to eat.

"Do I get a 'good morning'?" He asks.

"Do I get my life spared today? Both answers are obviously no," I say coldly, and continue wolfing down my plate.

"Cato, you've trained since you were five for twelve years; you'll be fine. It'll barely last three days. I'm confident and proud in you."

"Proud of what?" I put my fork down and stare at him.

"Proud of your son killing innocent children? Proud of your three other kids murdering half the tributes in a bloodbath? How the hell can you get pleasure out of people who come from such poor conditions, like the tributes of District 12 who already have miserable lives, being murdered?"

He's about to respond before I cut him off. "I'm not fucking hungry anymore." I get up from the table and throw my food away, knowing I'll be begging to have this type of food again in the arena.

"Okay," my dad finally says. "You woke up late today and didn't get to go training in time with the other careers. That's a shame."

The rest of my family pours into the kitchen and sits down. Everybody is silent and they barely touch their plates. I cross my arms and lean against the fridge door, glaring at them all. "I better see two full plates being eaten right now, or else." My mother forces food down for the sake of everybody else eating.

An hour later, the bell for the reaping rings.

I feel my lungs explode and my heart swell. I grip the back of the kitchen chair until my knuckles turn white, and my mother has to pry off finger by finger for me to let go.

My grandmother's house is on the way, and we drop Mitch off. "Hi, grandma," I say, and hold her fragile hand softly. "I just wanted to say I love you. Tell me if Mitch acts up and call mom if you need anything, okay?" I kiss her cheek and we leave to the square.

The peacekeepers sitting at the sign in table immediately start talking to my dad, and they laugh as if they were at a sitcom. My father knows them from work, being a peacekeeper himself. I'll never call myself to get used to the attention of being a victor family.

I take a deep breath, get my finger pricked, blood stamped, and walk in. My father and three siblings take their seats on stage as they do every year, and my mother and I go to our respective sections in the crowd. I stand on the very edge of my section.

Careers walk down the center aisle to go to their divisions. I hear a voice call my name from the aisle and turn to look at who it is. They call my name out again. "Cato?"

I see the owner of the voice approaching me.

It's Clove, my ex-girlfriend, whom I met at school. We broke up a month ago because she was too controlling. To be honest, I wasn't attracted to her at all and only felt bad when she asked me out. She still glances at me from time to time when we train, and the most I say is a hello before making up an excuse to leave.

"Clove?" I'm surprised. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be in your section."

"I just wanted to wish you good luck, although there's no doubt that if you volunteer, people will bet on you. I think this is the year I'm going to volunteer."

My voice is indifferent to that. "Okay. Have fun sending yourself to an arena that some of us wish they had a choice of going to." I cross my arms and turn away.

She blinks and stares at me, then turns away and walks off.

Our district escort, Leonis Flake, walks on stage wearing an oversized, black and white suit. He takes off his hat, runs his hand through his obvious extensions, and speaks into the microphone. I can see the smudges of gold eyeliner under his eyes, as they crease with each movement he makes.

"Welcome to the annual 74th Hunger Games! Today we are celebrating a much anticipated event, as I'm sure all of you are feeling the same way. Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor," Leonis says with a thick, Capitol accent.

He walks over to the reaping bowl holding the female entries names and wastes no time picking one out. His hand grabs the first one he sees and he calls out the girl's name. Clove lunges forward to volunteer, along with two other girls. A bet is made using a show of hands to vote for the tribute, and Clove wins. She takes her place on stage next to Leonis.

I'm not volunteering, I think to myself. I'm not, I'm not. He can't make me. He's up on stage.

Leonis makes his way the male reaping bowl and mutters, "This one will be interesting." He digs his hand in the bowl carefully, unlike the last time, picks a slip out, and walks back to the podium. His hands open the tiny envelope and he takes a fresh breath of air before calling it out, while I hold my breath.

"Cato Robinson."

As a kid, I would hate everybody with the same name as me. Now, I've never been more relieved in my life.

That's until my father stands up from his chair and walks behind Leonis. He whispers something in his ear and sits back down. Leonis looks confused but his eyes quickly fall on me, as everybody's eyes do.

"I…I think we have a volunteer from the back?" He stammers. "Since nobody else volunteered, Cato Adams is our male tribute. Come on up."

"No, I didn't—" I start yelling, but it's too late and I get shoved into the center aisle. Peacekeepers grab me and pull me up on stage. I try to push them off but there's too many of them.

I choke back tears and hear my mother sobbing loudly from the crowd. My father has never looked more proud for another one of his kid to go into the Games.

Clove and I are asked to shake hands. We don't.

Leonis carries on.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the tributes of this year's annual 74th Hunger games, Clove Morgan and Cato Adams!"