I stared at the loaves in disbelief. They were fine, perfect

really, except for the burned areas. Did he mean for me to

have them? He must have. Because there they were at my feet.

Before anyone could witness what had happened I shoved the

loaves up under my shirt, wrapped the hunting jacket tightly

about me, and walked swiftly away. The heat of the bread

burned into my skin, but I clutched it tighter, clinging to life.

By the time I reached home, the loaves had cooled somewhat,

but the insides were still warm. When I dropped them

on the table, Prim’s hands reached to tear off a chunk, but I

made her sit, forced my mother to join us at the table, and

poured warm tea. I scraped off the black stuff and sliced the

bread. We ate an entire loaf, slice by slice. It was good hearty

bread, filled with raisins and nuts.

I put my clothes to dry at the fire, crawled into bed, and fell

into a dreamless sleep. It didn’t occur to me until the next

morning that the boy might have burned the bread on purpose.

Might have dropped the loaves into the flames, knowing

it meant being punished, and then delivered them to me. But I

dismissed this. It must have been an accident. Why would he

have done it? He didn’t even know me. Still, just throwing me

the bread was an enormous kindness that would have surely

resulted in a beating if discovered. 1 couldn’t explain his actions.

We ate slices of bread for breakfast and headed to school. It

was as if spring had come overnight. Warm sweet air. Fluffy

clouds. At school, I passed the boy in the hall, his cheek had

swelled up and his eye had blackened. He was with his friends

and didn’t acknowledge me in any way. But as I collected Prim

and started for home that afternoon, I found him staring at me

from across the school yard. Our eyes met for only a second,

then he turned his head away. I dropped my gaze, embarrassed,

and that’s when I saw it. The first dandelion of the

year. A bell went off in my head. I thought of the hours spent

in the woods with my father and I knew how we were going to

survive.

To this day, I can never shake the connection between this

boy, Peeta Mellark, and the bread that gave me hope, and the

dandelion that reminded me that I was not doomed. And more

than once, I have turned in the school hallway and caught his

eyes trained on me, only to quickly flit away. I feel like I owe

him something, and I hate owing people. Maybe if I had

thanked him at some point, I’d be feeling less conflicted now. 

I thought about it a couple of times, but the opportunity never

seemed to present itself. And now it never will. Because we’re

going to be thrown into an arena to fight to the death. Exactly

how am I supposed to work in a thank-you in there? 

Somehow it just won’t seem sincere if I’m trying to slit his 

throat. The mayor finishes the dreary Treaty of Treason and 

motions for Peeta and me to shake hands. His are as solid and

warm as those loaves of bread. Peeta looks me right in the eye

and gives my hand what I think is meant to be a reassuring

squeeze. Maybe it’s just a nervous spasm.

We turn back to face the crowd as the anthem of Panem

plays. Oh, well, I think. There will be twenty-four of us. 

Odds are someone else will kill him before I do.

Of course, the odds have not been very dependable of late.