I went in once (never again, I promised myself) on one of the many mornings that I got in before everyone else. Nobody would know, I reasoned, and that would make it okay.

I put a milk crate between the door and the frame to hold it open and then walked in. The inside was cool and dark. On some level I expected it to be warm: it was an oven, after all. But it wasn’t; the cool steel felt reassuring against my hand and seemed to slow down my racing heart.

After I stepped out again and went about my regular duties, I realized that the milk crate I had chosen had some large and obvious breaks in it. At least, they were obvious after I got out. It makes me wonder whether they were obvious before.