August waves both dinosaurs from the back seat. “Bye, Hot Mama!”
Hot Mama grins. “Bye, Judge. Keep court mean and snacks fair.”
“Blue Rex says okay!”
I pull out and The Queens sign passes over us.
Straighten Your Crown Before You Start A War.
The words hit different now.
They are not cute. Not advice. A warning in wood.
Amelia watches the sign disappear in the side mirror until the trees take it.
I watch her.
Then I watch the road because we have a long damn way to go, and I ain’t wrecking the vehicle because feelings are trying to drive from the passenger seat.
For the first few hours, August talks nonstop.
About Princess Chomp, his new friend gave him. About the sandbox jail. About the girl with purple boots who said Oregon snakes are more polite than Kentucky snakes because they rattle first. About Hot Mama’s dog, who is apparently named Divorce, but it’s spelled out. About how I should build a bigger dinosaur courthouse at Amelia’s trailer because Blue Rex’s jurisdiction has expanded.
“Jurisdiction?” I ask, glancing in the rearview mirror.
August looks offended. “It means where court works.”
“I know what it means.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“Because you’re five.”
“I’m almost six.”
“In court years?”
He thinks about that. “Yes.”
Amelia laughs quietly beside me.
That sound does something to the inside of the SUV. Makes it less borrowed. Less haunted.
August keeps talking until he runs out of words somewhere in Idaho and falls asleep with Blue Rex under one arm and Princess Chomp under the other. His head tips sideways against the booster seat, mouth open, one shoe dangling half-off his foot.
The quiet after is heavy.
I drive another twenty miles before Amelia speaks.
“You hate the tattoo.”
I keep my eyes on the road. “No.”
“Derby.”
“I hate what it means.”
“You don’t know what it means.”