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I had just turned away from Peeta Mellark’s bruised face
when I saw the dandelion and I knew hope wasn’t lost. I
plucked it carefully and hurried home. I grabbed a bucket and
Prim’s hand and headed to the Meadow and yes, it was dotted
with the golden-headed weeds. After we’d harvested those,
we scrounged along inside the fence for probably a mile until
we’d filled the bucket with the dandelion greens, stems, and
flowers. That night, we gorged ourselves on dandelion salad
and the rest of the bakery bread.
“What else?” Prim asked me. “What other food can we
find?”
“All kinds of things,” I promised her. “I just have to remember
them.”
My mother had a book she’d brought with her from the
apothecary shop. The pages were made of old parchment and
covered in ink drawings of plants. Neat handwritten blocks
told their names, where to gather them, when they came in
bloom, their medical uses. But my father added other entries
to the book. Plants for eating, not healing. Dandelions, pokeweed,
wild onions, pines. Prim and I spent the rest of the night
poring over those pages.
The next day, we were off school. For a while I hung around
the edges of the Meadow, but finally I worked up the courage
to go under the fence. It was the first time I’d been there
alone, without my father’s weapons to protect me. But I retrieved
the small bow and arrows he’d made me from a hollow
tree. I probably didn’t go more than twenty yards into the
woods that day. Most of the time, I perched up in the branches
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