The rain drums steadily on the roof. Beyond the next wall, a virtual classroom instructor’s voice drones through the speakers like Charlie Brown’s teacher: “Wah, wah wah wah. Wah. Wah.” A door in the hallway rattles as it is opened, and then it bangs shut. Florescent lights above my head whine, pulsating with the pain behind my eyes.  The two-way radio crackles to life, a predictable disruption in this house of correction. I gaze around the room; beige plastic-molded chairs sit at tan wooden tables on a speckled tile floor, surrounded by off-white concrete block walls. Dreary hardly begins to describe it. Posters of nature scenes, the Bill of Rights, Branches of the U.S. Government, and other images make efforts to break through the drab discoloration, but the pasty clutter threatens to win the day. After having faded into the background, the rains pick up again, their crescendo and decrescendo toying with the listener, harkening to memories of cuddles with books, blankets, and hot chocolate.