And finally the smallest child, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.
Marcus Hale stood in front of them holding a clipboard.
He looked to be in his early forties.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Dark hair streaked with gray.
He did not raise his voice.
He did not need to.
Marcus slowly walked along the line.
He checked muddy sneakers.
Looked at fingernails.
Straightened one child’s crooked collar.
Then he made a mark on his clipboard.
Next, he turned a large wooden wheel mounted beside the porch.
Different chores appeared beneath an arrow.
Garden.
Laundry.
Breakfast.
Bathrooms.
Chicken coop.
Trash.
Repairs.
The children nodded.
Then scattered.
No arguing.
No whining.
No laughter.
By six o’clock, their backyard looked as though a professional landscaping team had spent the morning there.
Owen stepped onto the porch beside me.
“They’re organized.”
“They’re terrified.”
“I’m not sure about that.”
I looked at him.
“How could they not be?”
The Routine
Every morning, the same pattern repeated.
Whistle.
Line.
Inspection.
Chores.
School.
Every afternoon, the older children taught the younger ones practical skills.
