As we arrived at the new school building, a one-story glass-and-concrete structure with large picture windows,
I tried to imagine what it would be like walking through these corridors as a patient.
I visualized myself in the middle of a line of men and boys waiting to enter a classroom.
Perhaps I'd be one of those pushing another boy in a wheelchair, or guiding someone else by the hand, or cuddling a smaller boy in my arms.
In one of the woodworking classrooms, where a group of older boys were making benches under a teacher's supervision,
they clustered around us, eyeing me curiously. The teacher put down the saw and came towards us.
"This is Mr. Gordon from Beekman University," said Winslow.
"Wants to look over some of our patients. He's thinking of buying the place."
The teacher laughed and waved at his pupils. "Well, if he b-buys it, he's g-got to t-take us with it.
And he's g-got to get us some more w-wood to w-work with."
As he showed me around the shop, I noticed how strangely quiet the boys were.
They went on with their work of sanding or varnishing the newly finished benches, but they didn't talk.
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