On my first night in a new home, it rains. There’s thunder and lighting outside the windows for hours. The floor between the kitchen and the rest of the apartment is flooded.

I have brought with me about a dozen comfy flannels, some blue jeans, a toothbrush and similar, and six totebags full of books. Roughly an eighth of an entire bookshelf is filled with the works of Sir Terry Pratchett.

Also have a healthy sourdough starter, along with a carboy full of mead.

At work, I am decorating my classroom with fake plastic plants. This is all I can find. I also want to add Christmas lights.

My classroom.

“You know – I think you would make an excellent math teacher,” says the Calc I professor in the hallway outside the classroom at community college. Years ago.

The people who’ve just hired me as an apprentice seem to agree.

“At this school, we’re more to these students than just a teacher. Some of these kids, they come here and this is all of the actual love and safety that they will receive in a day. So you aren’t just a teacher. You’re like a second mom. You’re an auntie, an uncle, a father figure, a gaurdian. And you’d better believe that we spoil them here. Some of these kids can really stand to benefit from our love.”

I’m about to preside over a cohort of children who are roughly eleven or twelve years old.

All of them will know more about living in this city than I do.

On my first commute home from work, there are gunshots. It isn’t a good neighborhood, but it’s an excellent school. One of the best in the city. Half of our first cohort of seniors just graduated with full ride scholarships to undergrad.

And I want to help.