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57.

Though exhausted, though a bit lonely, I felt radiant. I was in the shape of my life, I was thinkingand seeing more clearly than ever before. The feeling was not unlike that described by people whoenter monastic orders. Everything felt lit up.

As with monks, each cadet had his own cell. It had to be pristine at all times. Our small bedshad to be made—tight. Our black boots had to be bulled—shiny as wet paint. Our cell doors hadto be propped open—always. Even though you could close the door at night, color sergeants could—and often did—walk in at any time.

Some cadets complained bitterly. No privacy!

That made me laugh. Privacy? What’s that?

At the end of each day I’d sit in my cell, bulling my boots, spitting on them, rubbing them,making them mirrors in which I could see my shorn head. No matter what institution I landed in, itseemed, a tragically bad haircut was the first order of business. Then I’d text Chels. (I was allowedto keep my mobile, for security reasons.) I might tell her how things were going, tell her I missedher. Then I’d loan my phone to any other cadets who might want to text their girlfriends orboyfriends.

Then it was lights-out.

No problem. I was no longer remotely afraid of the dark.