the best teacher: experience.

The two boys bid farewell to the music institute. The police officer drove them back to the correctional facility; it was half past four in the afternoon. The next trip would be long, but both Billy and Connor fell asleep during the entire journey, and only the sun's groans and the proximity to their destination woke them.

"It was a good day, boys," said Spencer cheerfully, pleased with what they had accomplished. It was a job in progress for renowned brands, but for a couple of novices in the music industry, it was more than well-deserved. Spencer stepped out of the patrol car, heading to his car to rest at home after the long day of work. In his mind, he dreamed like a little child about being a member of Billy's band.

"A troublemaker," thought Spencer. Saying it aloud would be a joke, as Professor Spencer wouldn't break a rule, not even by mistake. His upcoming moments would involve him and his grandmother, eating oatmeal.

Connor nodded calmly and headed to his room without apparent fatigue.

"Thanks, teacher," said Billy, totally asleep, not realizing that Spencer had already left. In his exhaustion, his instincts were relaxed, and he fell asleep as soon as he touched the pillow in the world of dreams. Three cheerful shadows watched the sleeping young man; they even shook him, but Billy didn't respond.

Once again, the dream fragmented, and the gray figure of his "home" came into view for another week. Another week falls into the daily routine of music, struggles, and the discomfort inherent in these types of institutions.

Before leaving, Chomsky decided to immortalize the moment with three photos. In one of them, Billy and Connor leaned against a wall, their heads hitting the wall, totally sweaty, talking about something. The image was taken from the front. The next one was of Billy singing in the music room, his eyes closed.

"He's fallen asleep," said the boy.

"Let's do this quickly before the guard shows up," whispered one of the shadows in the darkness.

"Wait... first, let's stash the evidence under the bed," said the boy, pulling out a package, white with what seemed to be green powder.

The kids couldn't help but laugh; some with their eyes open watched them in the darkness. Their gazes were fixed on the three kids incriminating Billy, but everyone kept quiet. After all, Carson is a snitch. Some closed their eyes again, but the children's laughter became louder.

"What are you doing?" shouted a guard.

The children ran back to their beds; everyone fell silent. The guard's flashlight partially illuminated the room, but it seemed like everyone was in their beds. Nearly three seconds after the guard left, some muffled laughter was heard.

Twin Towers Correctional Facility was Superintendent Charles's realm; security guard James Johnson acted without hesitation and took several pieces of evidence to the administrative departments.

The next morning arrived, and Billy felt his bed was wet, smelling of urine. He cursed inwardly; no one would leave him alone, and this routine would continue until he got out of this hole called prison. How sad, he thought, seeing how some just ignored his situation, and others laughed—the great superstar who wets the bed—what a humorous headline.

Billy got up from his seat, luckily only the blankets were wet with urine, and the mattress and bedspread remained dry. His pajamas, on the other hand, were slightly damp, and he could only curse. At no point did he think to check under his bed and see the implanted bag.

Monday started like a punch in the face, thought Billy.

Billy quickly took his clothes to the laundry, receiving some glances here and there. Only a few knew the situation, but the masses were forgetful and vengeful.

"Carson, be careful not to pee in the laundry," shouted a dark-skinned boy, driving humiliation into his face. Even the guards watching him thought he had committed the act. Fortunately, the laundry was empty; some sheets were lying around that he could use as replacements.

"Bladder issues, kid," said an old janitor they called Bones.

"A joke, Bones, those bastards peed on my bed," said Billy.

"Uhhh, you're in trouble then, kid. You better get used to taking hits because they're coming," said Bones.

"What do you mean?" questioned Billy.

"You know what I mean. Come, throw that in the washer. I've got another overall by that door; you can use the one that fits you best, although I'd prefer you not to use one, but there's nothing more to be done. Keep your eyes open and get out; I've got work to do," said Bones.

Taking a deep breath, he performed the tasks as quickly as possible. He didn't want to be late for the morning shower, and there might be some new trouble if he wasn't careful. He quickened his pace; he needed to cross the area from the laundry to his quarters and then prepare and organize everything for a shower. The guards only pressured during the first hour, and then they attended to other places like the cafeteria, hallways, and music rooms.

The showers were empty, but the calmness bred uncertainty, even more than when it was filled with shouts, laughter, jokes, and the howls of a few people. He bathed very carefully, facing the wall, terrified of a sudden attack. His clothes were hanging over the shower, so he wasn't afraid of a nudity situation, but a quick attack was possible. He cleaned himself with the same fear that gripped his heart.

"Fuhr," sighed Billy when he saw that nothing bad had happened.

He changed with his body still somewhat damp and ran to the dining hall, pushing his fear to the bottom of his heart. He hated living rejected, pointed at, and judged, but that's what he had been receiving in the past few days, and now the situation seemed to have escalated. Even his previous friend Pablo laughed at him, just as his jokes were heard by Billy, and how he pointed him out.

"You have to endure," said Connor, sitting next to him. Black circles marked his face; he used to sleep in class, unconcerned, placing his hand on Billy's shoulder in a supportive gesture. He wasn't good with words.

"Yeah," said Billy, recomposing himself in the sight of the fourteen-year-old boy, brown-haired, somewhere between brown and golden. Strength, a young man was teaching him about strength, although not much older, he understood the situation with a glance and brushed it aside.

"They'll play dirty, but that's life, people always play dirty," said Connor.

"It's complicated, Connor, but I'll do my best," said Billy, calming his demeanor.

"Superstars don't care about other people's words," Billy told himself throughout the day. He endured numerous taunts, jeers, and derogatory comments. He cleaned the third-floor hallway, practiced piano and music tirelessly with Connor, and tried to talk to the guard James Johnson, the old American who had a lot to say but gave away little.

"Come on, let's practice with more enthusiasm. Good news will come soon," said Spencer.

Connor's drums had a fast-paced rhythm as he worked on the adjustments for "Like a Stone." Billy continued practicing piano and singing, now doing both at the same time, a challenging feat when your fingers don't respond to the signal and when you're pitching a note.

"Master, I've got the song; it's just that I can't play and sing it at the same time," said Billy.

Spencer nodded. "Play it until you know it by heart," said the stout man.

...