I write to you today from deep within the bowels of the Chandler Public Library. To my left, at a distance of twenty paces, is a man that looks quite remarkably like Angelo from NPSD, albeit with more facial hair and less murder eyes. To my right is another whose polo shirt blends impeccably with the crimson wall behind him, a color perfectly suited to conceal any drops of salsa that dare escape the clutches of his Filiburto burrito. The wall features several rooms, the closest of which houses a blonde woman in an eggplant-colored blouse interrogating boy of about six. Her steely expression and his slumped shoulders suggest that he is failing. She closes the beige-framed door, perhaps due to the fact that I’ve been glancing up at them every few minutes.