“I went to the woods this morning and dug these up. For her,” he says. “I thought we could plant them along the side of the house.” I look at the bushes, the clods of dirt hanging from their roots, and catch my breath as the word rose registers. I’m about to yell vicious things at Peeta when the full name comes to me. Not plain rose but evening primrose. The flower my sister was named for.
