They walked in soaking wet. They wore dripping t-shirts or hooded sweatshirts that acted like sponges. They were shivering. I jacked the industrial sized roll of paper towels from the staff restroom. The kids don’t have paper towels. They have hand driers. They would make a mess with paper towels. Throw them on the floor. Throw them at each other. I tore off four foot strips. Held them out at arms length. The kids grabbed at them while their eyelashes dripped. They wanted them badly. They wanted more after they got them. It was like Christmas. It took ten minutes. Their hair was dry. My trash bins were full. Their clothes were still wet. That was last Friday. I thought they’d been caught off guard. Yesterday I gave them a warning. I said, “Wear your rain jackets tomorrow.” I said, “There’s going to be a big storm.” I said, “You don’t want to walk in looking like you did last week.” It was raining this morning before school started. Some walked in wearing t-shirts. Some were wearing hooded sweatshirts. I realized they didn’t have jackets. I realized I’ve lived a privileged life.