Anyway, we only lived in Colorado for a sec; I didn’t even register for school or anything. But I was there long enough to learn that you don’t have to get all bent out of shape whenever a stranger says hi or, like, howdy. Money was tight from the move, so my mom and I went out in the afternoons to the overgrown edges of parks and wild spots by the foothills to gather anything edible we could find. Nettles and lamb’s-quarters mostly, enough random leaves for a salad, and there was always plenty of mint she’d make into pesto that I never had the heart to tell her that I hated, which she’d mix up with rice or pasta from the charity bin at the local church.

There was this one day in particular—spring was dragging its feet, bright enough to fool you into a T-shirt, making your knees and elbows tight from shivering by the end of the day. We hauled a couple of plastic shopping bags each, strangers nodding or waving or saying hello as we made our way home. We took a different route back and I suspected we were lost, but it didn’t matter. At some point we came across a vacant lot full of wildflowers; some of the weeds had grown as tall as my eye line. My mother waded through up to her hips and I followed in the path she made. She pointed out inverted cones of soft, broad leaves tapering into long points at the top covered in little yellow blossoms, dangerous spiky stalks with frayed leaves and short strands of flowers like brittle brown beads, star-shaped blue flowers nestled in dark green foliage near the chain-link fence. “Verbascum thapsus, urtica dioica, borage for courage.” She couldn’t remember the Latin name of the last one, but I was impressed anyway.