It felt like any other May morning: a warm air nipped by cold up drafts, the sky a fading orange as the Sun crept higher, and the sluggish start quickly losing its alien discomfort as routine took over. Truly, had my day planner been stolen and my duties squandered, that's all the day could have been - a simple summer day.

That's not how life works though. At least for me.

The dull black sedan was cruising at a crippled pace through the winding roads of San Diego Country's eastern mountain range, a brief boundary that did its best to keep me from what was rightfully mine - it never worked. The whole of thirty minutes was spent mindlessly listening to my new Deputy Director Mitchell Weiss run over the details of today's schedule. He was a calm and orchestrated German, a reported transfer from the Director's office up north in San Francisco. The fact he was so green in my presence was clear since he failed to recognize just how bored I was. I already knew the schedule; he was only reading it over so the old man - me - would not forget so quickly.

How foolish the young can be.

I knew damn well what day it was: it was the opening school day of the Chula Vista Collective's summer semester. That was nothing special in comparison to the past ten years though; what mattered was the fact that each of the Collective's three schools had entirely new administrators. All three. And not just a bunch of old white men looking to have an easy break before retirement; a bunch of youngsters, not even in their forties. And now they were about to start their new careers in my Collective. Clearly it was a more important day than the last ones had ever been. Especially considering the circumstances of each administrator in particular.

The wristwatch on my arm told me it was nearing a quarter to eight o' clock as the sedan pulled past the Collective campus' western gate. The smooth road was filled with a few other cars as they drove to and from each school campus, though the sidewalks surrounding us became increasingly packed with students of all ages - boys before puberty, girls just entering high school, men nearing graduation with a bachelors, a few women working toward their doctorate, and any other sort of face or life you could imagine. Each was uniformed with their respective school style, and though tired, had a step to them that cried some kind of anticipation for the new year.

I watched my children with a grin. I was excited too.

Today's purpose required something of a tour throughout each school and a personal meeting with their administrators. Nothing flashy, just enough to get a point across. The one where I remained at the top. First stop was John C. Fremont High, on the campus' northwest edge. The sedan pulled up with a quiet hush, the windows fairly tinted and the driver calm as I straightened the black tie cuffing my dark button up and grabbed hold of the walking cane that sat next to me. Weiss just nodded to my silence and exited the car so to come around and open mine.

I stepped out, looking no different than I had for the last ten years: silver slimmed spectacles, a theme of black in my formal suit, the white in my hair and the stern grip in my aging hands, and that contemplative frown I'm told scares the lesser students to shivers. The main entrance to Fremont was bustling with activity today, but in such an orderly form of bloodthirst and excitement that was not accustomed to other school mornings. There was a routine in this event, one I was expecting entirely.

I stood there, watching the crowd's circle build and the cries for more rise - not toward me, but to a student on the other side of that massive wall of bodies, their cheers for a fight, their woes over seeing me. It was nothing new; the same welcoming committee had been happening for years now. The particular student grew excitement from the idea of fighting someone at the main entrance of Fremont High at the start of every school year. It was their routine, after all.

But Weiss didn't know that. He stared at the crowd in awe, shocked to see any sort of collective mass together over something so frighteningly simple, and glanced to me for an explanation. I gave him no glance in return, and instead gave him a simple sentence, as I felt the pits of my cheeks puff and widen as I spoke back, though still watching the crowd ahead.

"They do this every year Mitchell. It's their way to say 'hello'."

Weiss just glanced back to the crowd in perplexion, nodded his head, and glanced back at me, explaining his shock, "Frankly sir... this is new to me. Who do you mean... they?"

With this I gazed at him, holding that curious eye for a while, and then slowly allowed myself to smile quite broadly. I chose not to answer him. Instead, I'd let my children do it for me.

After all, it was a new day.