Right there in the word, scrambled with auto, meaning self, are “rats.” Do not look in an autocrat’s eyes, the dead zone will suck you in. Do not listen to their words—or listen carefully and then run them through a sieve five times, 5 being what your hand can hold, what makes a fist that you must take to a pillow and pound 7 times, 7 being the number of days a week you need to do this. Then, unfurl the five fingers and grab a pen—write all the ways you remember sweetness—the sticky gumballs plopping out of machines, bubbles foaming your hair in the bath as a child, your grandmother’s paprika chicken with brown sugar, and keep going because the autocrat thinks what is sweet is your paralysis, your quaking, your head buried under blankets. Think about power and powerful moments—your first car, its purr or sputtering engine that took you miles from home, opening away from flatlands to crests of mountain ridges. Remember when your father was mad, he went outside and threw balls against the garage wall rather than slapping anyone’s cheek.