Despite my daughter and her five-year-old friend bouncing about the house, their bodies aimed toward razing the place to the very beams and caulking, I could not turn my attention away from Daniels and the police beating him, coercing him to confess to a murder he did not commit. Sometimes, the prisons they take me into are the Hollywood set-design cellblocks of the late '80s-steel bars, the clanging and slamming of cell doors, inmates' hands hanging out through the bars, the inmates' bodies, somehow, not there. When the police pulled the boys from their car and made them stand in front of the woman whose house was robbed, she pointed out that my friends were, in fact, boys-children-and not men. Change the region, the clouds and sky, the temperature, the decade, the neighborhood, the legislature, the police car's color and the color of the officers' hands, and nothing changes but a few particularities of my dream.