Morning begins like an exhale. The clank of a tray becomes percussion, the corridor a narrow stage. I rehearse lines I never thought I’d say aloud: apologies I owe, stories I owe myself, promises I fold into the seam of my shirt. Voices ricochet—some raw, some practiced—with jokes that snap like rubber bands and lullabies hummed off-key. We improvise routines to the rhythm of restriction.