‘Ten more minutes, honeycomb.’
‘But, I need to go!’
‘Try holding it in, muffin.’
My eight-year-old hopped around, holding her butt, face red as a beet. I would have laughed, but we couldn’t afford things like laughter in these desperate times.
‘Five more minutes, sweetie. Your mom is still out and about. So is Darren. Why don’t you go behind that nice tree.’
‘I want MY bathroom, Papa.’
I could see my ex-wife and her Darren milling around in the house. They usually wander off for a snack around this time.
Why do bloody zombies need bathrooms?
Even (un)dead, she gets the house.