Lottie looks back at him. “Only if insurance asks.”
Hot Mama steps down from the porch as we get out. The kids have stopped their game and now hover at a distance, staring at August with the fearless curiosity of children who can smell a new player. August moves close to my side but keeps looking at them.
Lottie opens the back and starts unloading bags. “Get your backpack, sugar.”
August grabs his dinosaur bag and Blue Rex. Before he can close the door, the girl with braids and purple boots marches over.
“What’s his name?” she asks, pointing at Blue Rex.
August grips him tighter. “Blue Rex.”
“I got a raptor.”
He blinks. “You do?”
She pulls a green dinosaur from the pocket of her hoodie. Its tail is chewed. One foot is missing. “This is Princess Chomp.”
August’s eyes widen with genuine respect. “She looks tough.”
“She bit my dad.”
The air changes for me.
Only for me, maybe.
The girl says it so easily. Like weather. Like fact. Like the kind of thing children here don’t have to explain because everyone already understands parents can be monsters.
August looks at me.
I keep my face steady with effort.
Then he looks at the girl. “Blue Rex does court.”
She frowns. “Like jail?”
“Sometimes.”
“Cool. We got a jail in the sandbox.”
Of course they do.
August looks back at me. “Can I?”
My first instinct is no.
The word rises fast, born from every road mile, every threat, every time someone got too close and made my child the weak place to press.
But I look around.
At the women watching.
At the sign.
At the code.
At rule three.
Kids eat first.