lives | t.e. greenwood Serving Food and Time The First Day, 5:45 a.m. Five of us are standing single ï¬le along a dim corridor, waiting for a door to open. Ahead of us is a Corrections Ofï¬cer, or co, trying to reach someone who can unlock it. I lean against the concrete wall and notice the others are leaning too. We might all fall asleep like that, if nothing happens. The trouble we are having right now is that we are too early. We arenât supposed to be here until 6 a.m., and the co roused us at 5:40. But, mercifully, the door opens, and we move on to a bright white room with long tables and benches, one of two empty dining areas. We ï¬le around the perimeter toward the next door, at the far end. It is held open by Rosa, crisply attired in her uniform, her black hair pulled back. She is glad to see us. She counts aloud as we pass by, marking us down on her clipboard. âUno, dos, tres,â¦good morning, good morning, cuatro, cinco!â The ï¬oor feels sticky under our feet, and there is a smell of sour mop water, which gets
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