The Zolk was there before me, as much a fixture of my life as gravity or air or the sense of my own body.

It exists in even my earliest memories as a constant warning against carelessness.

It was there when I brush my teeth, giggling in the bathtub.

It was there stealing food that fell under the table at every meal. It was there sitting above

my bed, struck in my hair with hands the size of dinner plates. Every morning

there were new rules. All learned from close calls that happened the day before.

Every week we reviewed its effects on us how to improve, how to be smarter, how to be safer.

For a long time, I couldn't even distinguish the rules made for it and the rules made for us.

Don't touch the oven when it's on.

Be careful of the kettle. Don't play the oven when it's on.

Be careful of the kettle.

Don't play with plug sockets.

Don't put cables in your mouth.

Watch where you step.

Never use an appliance without first checking the wiring.

Always look daddy, look out for the Zog as he backs out of the driveway.

Rules upon rules upon rules, growing in number and complexity until we felt stifled.

All of us slowly going mad from the suffocating need for constant vigilance.

Other teenagers had fun.

Other teenagers stepped away from the rules and embraced freedom.

That's what adulthood was meant to be about, or so I thought at the time.

But not for me.

...