“That’s such a great idea,” Pfennig said. “A seed bank.”
And it was true. The metal shelves held hazelnuts, garlic cloves, and lumpy nodules I couldn’t identify.
We’d survive, Pfennig decided. Dig up the parks, plant the seeds, harvest our own food. When the soldiers at last removed the barriers around the city, they’d find us healthy and thriving. Then we’d walk out proudly into the sunshine of the new world.
He clapped me on the back, and I beamed with pride, unable to confess a squirrel had done the collecting. All I’d been gathering was graffiti.