25 minutes later, I was driving down a skinny winding road. The latest Counting Crows album was playing through my stereo but barely audible; I tend to lower the volume of my music whenever I'm carefully scoping a place I'm driving through for the first time. This road appeared to have no end, even though I distinctly remembered the sign a quarter mile behind that read "North Florida Evaluation and Treatment Center." Eventually multiple structures of the complex became more and more visible. A few thoughts raced through my head as I reached the entrance to security: if this internship would include some cool tasks, how excited I would be to make this drive a month from now, whether I had overdressed, whether I had underdressed, if I would ever be in danger, if there were any hot chick interns...

I sat in a lobby outside the gates for about ten minutes until a supervisor from my department came along. Bobbie welcomed me as a volunteer/intern at NFETC, a treatment facility for criminal offenders deemed too mentally incapacitated to be involved in a court proceeding. We passed through the security chamber and entered the campus grounds, where many offenders were freely walking and within a few feet of me. I could tell by the smell that many of them smoked a lot and didn't like to shower, but others seemed just like anyone you'd find in your neighborhood (or even your office). Workers would later tell me that the way to tell whether anyone is a worker or a resident is to look for an identification badge; anyone without ID is a patient. Trust me, without the ID rule, you'd have no clue in some cases.

The first building to the left looked almost like a stand-alone thrift store, but in actuality this was the Learning Resources Department, my headquarters. Inside I discovered that for the summer I would be surrounded by pale blue walls and one of those street signs you buy at the mall (this one read "Parking for Gator fans Only"). Bobbie introduced me to some of the staff: DeVaughn, the stocky, cordial head honcho; Fred, the obsessive compulsive administrator who must leave at 4:23 everyday; Paul, the computer lab instructor stricken with cerebral palsey; and Phyllis, the lanky and quirky general education teacher who immediately called me Antonio.

Bobbie led me out the door for a brief tour of the grounds. Once she acquainted me with the music room and art lab, I could no longer hide my confusion. I had to ask a very important question: "So, what exactly will I be doing here?" I still don't quite get it. Maybe I'm just like those fire hoses in the glass cases that you're supposed to break open with a little hammer in case of an emergency. The Learning Resources Department provides opportunities in education and the arts for some of the better behaved patients. As the little man in the case, I have the honorable task of shadowing the workers and offering assistance whenever they be in need.

I got really psyched when Bobbie told me that on Wednesday she would let me sit in for rounds, when a panel reviews the facts surrounding the patient and his court case, talks face-to-face with the man, and determines whether to continue on course or alter treatment. My hand grapsed Bobbie's shoulder--- maybe a little too forcefully. I'm thinking that he wanted to tell Bobbie what I most wanted to see. She looked at me and said, "You know, the tour can wait. Let me see if I can get you in Fred's session. It's going on right now."

By the time the patient with the big beard stared into the corner and stroked his beard while explaining that he never signs anything because of fear that he may be signing to allow Bush to perform tests on him, I knew my summer days working at the treatment center would not be without some memorable moments. There's all sorts of cool stuff here. I was given a computer where I can access background checks on any patients I may meet! I bounced against the walls of the padded room with a hot chick intern! The cafeteria has some good food that is wicked cheap--- I got two chicken cutlets, garlic bread, a large bowl of fries, carrot cake, and a large lemonade for $1.75! They gave me a badge!

But the coolest experience, by far, came in the afternoon, about an hour before I was to punch out. I was chilling at the computer, checking out a certain guy's case and diagnoses, when I heard Phyllis calling for Antonio. One of her math classes was in session, and she sought some extra assistance. After I verified to her that I did indeed advance beyond eight grade math, she paired me with a balding thirty-something-year-old man slumped over, scratching his head with his pencil eraser. He read me the instructions, stuttering through the multi-syllable words and barely comprehending what the instructions actually meant. We were learning how to find perimeter. We talked about the basic meaning of perimeter, we read through word problems, I drew him example pictures, and he never missed a problem. We would read each story, figure out what we were supposed to do, write out the addition equation, and solve the problem. No, wait. He would solve the problem. He may have paused longer than most people would, and he may have messed up once or twice in areas that wouldn't trouble a third grader, but he got the answers. By himself.

What's important is not that he learned how to find perimeter and correctly add three-digit numbers. Deeper than that, he accomplished something and completed a task on his own, a feat he never believed he could pull. The man Phyllis would later tell me was "highly suicidal and rarely smiles" left the room with a big grin, his voice rising an octave as he looked back at me and said, "Thank you man. That was great. What's your name again?"

I told him my name again, and he left happy.