At rule five.
Touch without permission and lose the hand.
Hot Mama’s voice comes from beside me. “No kid disappears here, baby. Not unless they’re hiding from chores, and even then Shortie finds them by snack time.”
A broad older woman near the security shed lifts two fingers. She has gray hair cut short, arms like fence posts, and a rifle slung over one shoulder like a purse.
Shortie, I assume.
She nods at August. “Stay where your mama can see you until she stops looking like she’ll bite the first crow that flies over.”
August looks at me.
I swallow.
“Yes,” I say.
The word is harder than it should be.
His smile is worth it.
He runs with the girl toward the sandbox, Blue Rex clutched to his chest. Two other children join them before he even reaches it. They all start talking over each other about dinosaur court, sword rules, and whether Princess Chomp should be allowed to bite criminals twice.
I stand there watching him.
Breathing.
Not well.
But breathing.
Hot Mama stops beside me.
She smells like vanilla, tobacco, leather, and something floral that doesn’t dare be sweet.
“Caroline’s eyes,” she says.
I turn slowly.
Her gaze moves over my face like she is reading old handwriting on a torn page.
“Mike’s trouble,” she adds.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
I do neither.
Her eyes drop briefly to my clenched hands. “Your own damn fear.”
My throat tightens.
Then she smiles.
“We’ll work on that.”
Lottie laughs under her breath. “That’s Hot Mama for welcome.”
Hot Mama pulls Lottie into a hug that is half affection, half inspection. “You look tired.”