After the worst of the pandemic (hopefully), I come back to teach at the Juvenile Detention Center. It’s been three years. I remember a lot of the boys. I hate that fact. I don’t know and won’t ask if they’ve been here the whole time. The other possibility is worse. They are supposed to be here learning their lesson, feeling sorry, breaking cycles, approximating High School. They slip their feet in and out of their rubber sandals, spend long periods of time alone in the bathroom, take their medication, argue with the officer beside the pencil sharpener, and I begin my lesson in proximity. On the last day they sing.