No woman leaves with the man she ran from.
Kids eat first.
Crying is allowed. Whining is taxed.
Touch without permission and lose the hand.
Straighten your crown before you start a war.
Hot Mama don’t like ugly.
I stare at it through the windshield of Lottie’s SUV while August leans forward from the back seat, his seat belt straining across his dinosaur pajamas.
“What does taxed mean?” he asks.
Lottie puts the SUV in park under the sign like we are waiting to be judged by outlaw commandments. “Means if you complain too much, somebody makes you do chores.”
August frowns. “That’s not money.”
“Honey, chores are worse than money.”
He reads the sign again, sounding out the words he knows and guessing the ones he doesn’t. “Kids eat first.”
“That’s right,” Lottie says.
“I like that rule.”
“So does every kid who ever lived.”
He points. “What’s lose the hand?”
I close my eyes.
Lottie answers before I can find a version that isn’t horrifying. “It means you keep your hands to yourself unless somebody says you can touch.”