Herbert W Armstrong

The bell rings, signaling the end of another class, and students pour out of the classrooms and head up the various pathways. It is lunchtime. The dress is typical of that found in most of the schools in the area: jeans, T-shirts, tank tops. Some of the young people form into groups, others prefer to remain alone. Most seem pleasant enough, returning your smile and occasionally joining in casual conversation. But there is something different about it all, something wrong. The students who look at you for any measurable length of time have a fire in their eyes, a fire kindled by anger, sadness and suspicion. Although this place has many features of a school, in simplest terms, it is a prison. And these aren't really students, they're prisoners.

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