Hey all, and welcome to this book. It's the first full-length novel I ever fully wrote, started way back in 2017 and, though it's taken a century, finally finished in 2020. Thanks to everyone who's read it so far and who waited for months into years for chapters. Thanks for the comments and votes and reading the book's way to nearly 5K views! I really appreciate it. Without further ado, to all who are reading now, I hope you enjoy what I've written and that, if anything, it stirs that little Clato-loving part of you ;)

-shenever

Clove

I wake to the sound of pebbles ricocheting off my bedroom window. Cato. I smile ruefully. This is our reaping day routine.

I whip my blanket off and cross to my closet. I'd had a nightgown on when I went to bed but had taken it off because I was so hot last night. I'd woken up sweating buckets because it's the 1st of July and who isn't?

Everyone says the tributes from 1,2, and 4 live for the Games. Training ahead of time, volunteering, winning. They call us the Career Tributes; Careers. Sure, we do train. We try to be prepared. But that doesn't mean we aren't as afraid as everyone else.

I pull on my nicest, and only, dress. It's made of layers of orange fabric that fall to my knees, cinched at the waist. I run a brush through my hair and rush outside, pulling on simple black flats at the door.

I rush into Cato's arms, and he wraps them around my waist, strong and muscular. My arms drape around his neck. He buries his face in my long brown hair, breathing in my scent. I let out a little laugh when he does this.

"What?" He asks in mock annoyance. I laugh again in response. "I can't help it if you smell like roses."

I smile and lift my face to his. Our foreheads press together and he whispers something almost unintelligible.

"May the odds be ever in our favor," he says.

"We won't be picked. We'll be fine, Cato."

"You always say that."

"And have we ever been picked?"

Cato laughs. The alternative would be to cry, and we know that's no way to start the day. As Careers, we're supposed to be prepared for this, even exited. But we aren't. Every year since we were twelve we have dreaded the reaping, knowing how easily it could tear us apart.

"Cato, if-"

"You always say that too."

"Say what?"

"If I get picked. If I die. If-" He sighs.

"Cato."

"Clove."

"I love you."

Cato pulls away abruptly. I have never said this before. I've thought it, many times, but never voiced it. Cato and I are not exactly an item or anything. We are just friends. Very good friends. We have never kissed or anything of the sort. In fact, I've never kissed anyone, other than maybe a light peck on my mother's cheek. Kissing to me is to finite, such a defining factor in any relationship, that it seems difficult to commit to. It's the same with those little words- I love you. I find my stomach fluttery at the prospect of his response.

Cato sighs. I sigh back.

"I love you too." Cato hugs me again. I breathe a sigh of relief. It's not that I'm in love with Cato, but I do love him. The reason I've never told him is because I figured he'd assume I was the first, I suppose, or that loving him would change our ease of interaction. He is taking this well.

"I mean like a friend... I guess."

He pulls back slightly and stares at me; that sharp, penetrating stare that seems to gaze right into your soul. I stare back at him, into his bright blue eyes. His spiky blond hair glows in the golden dawn light, and suddenly I feel my face heat up.

"Oh," He says. "I mean-me too."

"Sorry."

"Don't. Let's just enjoy this." He doesn't say so, but I know what he's thinking. This is our last moment of peace before the reaping.

"Okay," I whisper. He pulls me close again. After a long moment of silence he lets me go and lowers himself to sit on the top step of my porch's stairs. I sit in front of him, nestled between his legs. Maybe we are more than friends.

I feel Cato's hands in my hair, brushing it out with his fingers and tying little braids. He picks bright yellow wildflowers growing up between the porch slats and weaves them into the hairdo. I love it when he does this. For someone so brutish, he can be so precise and delicate. When he's done, he leans his chin on the top of my head.

"Just one more year after this," Cato says. He's referring to the reaping of course. After this year, I will only have to undergo the anxiety once more until I'm 19, making me ineligible. Cato is 18, so this is his last reaping. Two more and we're both safe. I wonder, by the time we realize there's nothing that could possibly separate us, how we will change.

"Should we go?" I ask him, also referring to the reaping. It's at 9:00, and it's probably about 7:45 now, but we like to get there earlier.

"Should we wake your mother?" Cato asks.

"No," I say. I can't handle her right now. Every reaping day she is an emotional wreck. My father started training to be a peacekeeper right after I was born, which meant he wasn't allowed to have a family. He left my mother to raise me on her own, which makes her quite tumultuous. The thought of losing me to the Games makes her even more so. Cato understands.

"Let's go then." He sighs and gets up, standing above me and giving me the inner-soul-depths stare again. "Your hair looks good."

"Thanks, I wonder who did it."

"That's not what I meant. I mean- you... the dress-" He sighs again. "You look nice, Clove."

"You too," I say. And he does. His parents have always made him wear slacks and a collared button-up shirt to the reapings. Gotta look nice for the Capitol if you get picked. He says he hates the outfit and makes an effort to mess up his hair and untuck his shirt as soon as he's out from under his parents' eyes.

"I feel like I'm being choked." Cato tugs at his black tie.

"Well, it's charming." I reach up and straighten his collar. "Let's go."

Cato

I stand stoically amongst the other 18-year-olds. I can't see Clove because she's buried in the swarm of seventeens. There must be hundreds in between us.

Our district's escort, Madeleine Maggot, is chirping on about some nonsense. The kids at school all call her simply The Maggot, because we are repulsed by her occupation. Her job is to pick the names at the reaping, then take the two kids who are picked to the Capitol to be eventually killed in the Hunger Games. Maybe I'm exaggerating a little bit about the certain death thing. Being Career Tributes, or just Careers, meaning we start training ourselves for the games when we're young, usually helps us to win. The tributes from District 1 and 4 are also typically Careers.

I find myself constantly adjusting my tie. My mother always makes me wear one.

"Okay!" The Maggot trills onstage. She's wearing some sort of neon tulle dress and has died her long curly hair a sickly green. "Let's draw the names!"

I can't stop myself making a disgusted face at her. The Capitol residents are so idiotic. My disgust is quickly replaced by anxiety as she says: "Ladies first of course!" I swallow the lump forming in my throat and search for Clove. She is nowhere to be seen. I wipe my face of emotion.

Onstage, the Maggot dramatically reaches her bony little hand into the huge glass ball filled with all the girls' names. Clove's will be in there six times, as her mother never allowed her to add any extra chances. I on the other hand, my parents on the other hand, have ensured my name to be practically half the bowl. When my family sees the Hunger Games, they see pride.

The Maggot's fingernails are over an inch long and each one is sharpened to a deadly point. The seconds tick by unbelievably slow. Finally she reaches deep into the sea of crisp white paper slips and pulls one out.

Somehow, I know she's going to say Clove's name before she even speaks. Maybe I feel this way every year, but every year I'm so sure it's going to be true. It's a painful intuition. She walks back to center stage, slip in hand, and gives a little cough into the microphone. I wring my hands together as the Maggot unfolds the paper.

She clears her throat again and speaks in a loud, clear voice.

My heart stops.

I was right.

The name is Clove Cray.