The door to my cell won't open. It's stuck. This is a problem. I have a routine. A routine I do every day. A routine that comforts me. Not because it's familiar. Not because it's something to pass the time. Definitely not because I'm a person who needs to follow something mindlessly because thinking is too scary. But, because what I do is good. Objectively good. Good in a way I don't need God to tell me so. I see it in the faces of the people I reach. The hearts I lighten. And, at times, the horrible roles I need to fulfill because no one else will do them. The role of caretaker for the sick, and when I tender to the dying. That routine is being delayed. Presumably by an obstruction. I don't know why. Some prank? Some accident? Some stupidity on my part? I fiddle with the handle one more time. It's still stuck. Choice time: 1. I became angrier and angrier with the delay. I can't stay like this. I wrapped a sheet around my hand, planted my feet on the ground, and pulled the door as hard as I could, yanking with my arm and twisting my body. 2. I became bewildered at this point, even a bit scared. I finally chanced to cry out for help without caring who I would disturb. I took in a gulp of air, prepared my lungs, and shouted. 3. I became fed up with the situation. There's a game being played and I'm not falling for it. I went and sat back on the bed, knowing eventually someone would have to let me out.