I said no, no, no

I'm in what looks and feels like prison, but I'm surrounded by young people. I quickly realize that I've been sent to rehab. I have no idea why, as I'm not going through any type of withdrawal. All I know is that the place is dingy and muddy and disgusting, and I'm standing in line to have the contents of my bag rifled through by a very cross black lady with short hair, glasses, and big teeth. She pulls out two pairs of underwear — both of them, I understand, are brand new, and one of them seems to be a custom job and is, if I may say, really adorable: It's chocolate brown with light blue and pink and yellow stitching curving around the hip — and tells me that I can't take them inside. I'm incredulous; I can't have underwear in rehab? No, she tells me, it's not like that. It's just that I can't have that particular pair. (Perhaps it was so cute that it would have caused a disturbance among the menfolk? I don't know.)

No suddenly I'm in a train car, and not one meant necessarily for human passengers. It's dark and the walls are made of rickety wood, with a generous amount of space between each plank so that I can see the world whizzing by outside. There are other people in the car with me. Everyone seems just as downtrodden and miserable. A fellow passenger gets up and walks to the far end of the car, where there seems to be some sort of makeshift kitchen set up. He crosses a particular spot and I see what must have been an invisible barrier light up red and set off an alarm. The guy doesn't seem to care that he's about to get in trouble. Trouble never comes for him.

It occurs to me that I need to wash my hands. Badly. But the only way to do so is to cross that alarm-rigged invisible barrier. I decide I've got to do it. And when I do, sure enough, the alarm screeches but I wash my hands as planned. Although I can't quite remember the details, I'm pretty sure that I get in trouble even though the other guy did not. I've lost a lot of details here.

The last thing I really remember is being issued a car (they give us cars, but my underwear was unacceptable?). I get in mine, and drive myself and several passengers up an incline and around a curve to a grimy parking lot sitting atop a concrete hill that overlooks the dirt-packed courtyard of the rehab facility. I notice that the lot is, with the exception of my car and a Saturn, full of brand-new Fits. I point out how odd this is, but no one seems to care.