A motel cul-de-sac has swallowed stacked rows of squatters. The pastel exteriors and novelty signs paint a twinkling sheen that covers welfare moans. Reservations are made in carefully segmented intervals, and the guests are never described as permanent. A purgatory for those with child ankle weights.
Bobby is the benevolent duke of the castle, a man residing beside his subjects, more of a servant than a ruler. His neck is always exposed, and his gracious disposition steamrolls his body into a doormat. Bobby's highest loyalty is to the children, unschooled, unchaperoned, and undisciplined.
The little Moonee is the three-foot terror that attempts to usurp the throne with prohibited ice cream and science experiments. She has recruited a rag tag team of mini hustlers. Stealing cues from her mother, Halley, she works the streets in significantly more innocent ways, yet retains the same sinister motive.
Stuck protecting doomed fragments of families, Bobby builds a secret charity under the nose of regional management. An alternative lodging option for families not fortunate enough to stay within the Kingdom, his operation melds Floridian and out-of-state sensibilities in often vicious ways.
Scams and unsanctioned transactions of service comprise the income of drowning mothers. Abandon crack houses and hurricane remnants provide jungle gym sanctuaries for foulmouthed but imaginative rug rats. The safaris and mystery hunts culminate in vibrant childhoods undervalued by the state.
A war of financial attrition rages as Moonee becomes a giant prune in a bathtub play prison. Bobby trusts Halley at an unreasonable level, but he is trying to rewrite a history that has pushed his last "Halley" beyond communication. Parenthood becomes rather arbitrary when predators are loose. A motel manager can even be a father in a pinch, but the kids are bound for a custody cyclone.
Bobby is the benevolent duke of the castle, a man residing beside his subjects, more of a servant than a ruler. His neck is always exposed, and his gracious disposition steamrolls his body into a doormat. Bobby's highest loyalty is to the children, unschooled, unchaperoned, and undisciplined.
The little Moonee is the three-foot terror that attempts to usurp the throne with prohibited ice cream and science experiments. She has recruited a rag tag team of mini hustlers. Stealing cues from her mother, Halley, she works the streets in significantly more innocent ways, yet retains the same sinister motive.
Stuck protecting doomed fragments of families, Bobby builds a secret charity under the nose of regional management. An alternative lodging option for families not fortunate enough to stay within the Kingdom, his operation melds Floridian and out-of-state sensibilities in often vicious ways.
Scams and unsanctioned transactions of service comprise the income of drowning mothers. Abandon crack houses and hurricane remnants provide jungle gym sanctuaries for foulmouthed but imaginative rug rats. The safaris and mystery hunts culminate in vibrant childhoods undervalued by the state.
A war of financial attrition rages as Moonee becomes a giant prune in a bathtub play prison. Bobby trusts Halley at an unreasonable level, but he is trying to rewrite a history that has pushed his last "Halley" beyond communication. Parenthood becomes rather arbitrary when predators are loose. A motel manager can even be a father in a pinch, but the kids are bound for a custody cyclone.