By the time the sun fully rises above the treetops, they make their way to the lake, cast their fishing lines, and settle on a blanket to wait. They’ve been hard at work since the first light, setting snares and gathering along the way, and now they share a meagre breakfast and a cluster of honeysuckle flowers for sweetness. Hands brushing in the companionable silence, something unsaid between their fingertips. After, Gale lays back on the blanket, one hand behind his head, the other stretched out. Inviting, Katniss thinks as she looks over to him, inching closer.
A year ago, even a mere month, she would have poked him hard in the unprotected ribs, perhaps used her advantage to start a tickle fight, but now… after years of sharp glances and sharp elbows, something in her softens, a prickly bud unfurling to bloom.
From our essay by Susan Schulten exploring the pioneering work of Emma Willard (1787–1870), a leading feminist educator whose innovative maps of time laid the groundwork for the charts and graphics of today: https://publicdomainreview.org/essay/emma-willard-maps-of-time
The cold, hard coin he earns helps a lot, Katniss hates to admit that. Money can be traded more readily for other necessities, and their families get to keep most of the food she brings in throughout the week. They even manage to save up a little, for emergencies.
(Or perhaps for running away, neither says aloud.)
With the passing months, she can see the toll it takes on him, in the stiffer set of his shoulders, the harder line of his mouth. The kids are thriving, Gale tells her when he catches her worrying, it’s alright. Katniss nods, silently grateful for every day without a disaster.
