Trombone turns to me. “What it means, teach, is we don’t need you telling us what to think about anymore. No offense, we know you’re down with us. You’re only here because you caved in on a pot rap. But the only freedom we’ve got left is between our ears, man, so do not fuck with it, okay?”

That shuts me down cold. The last crime I thought I’d ever be accused of is censorship, for which I have a lifetime of hate, yet here I am, in the heart of the gulag, telling the dissidents to hush, lest the guards overhear. And I don’t even live here. Where have my balls gotten to?

Rebellion is in the air. Rather than stick around for the riot that I smell brewing-if I were taken hostage, wouldn’t the cops take an extra sip of coffee and chow one last donut before lackadaisically strolling into the yard in time to watch me get stuck with a shank?-I issue an assignment and beat a hasty retreat.