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every day. He taught that drowners never wave, never call, never signal distress, and never say thank you when hauled out gasping for air. "Inventory! Inventory gentlemen." A strict mental inventory of heads bobbing was to be kept. A missing head meant move! "Drowning is NOT dramatic. It is silent! Know the count. Keep updating. Inequality means move!" It wasn't much different from card counting, Marcus thought, though he didn't gamble. The off periods were 30 minutes used for daily required exercises, guard lane swimming - a deep end lane was kept free for guards to keep in shape and deep water testing kids - and also for just shooting the bull with each other and with the children who loved to just sit in on the discussions, whether it was about anything they understood or not. There was a rich story telling tradition here that Marcus never before experienced. This was part of that. Just begin to tell a story and a circle would immediately form and grow. They didn't have books, but they had stories and they had their story tellers. Moneta Duvane, a ten year old, told the story of the Bell Witch of the Mississippi - doing all the voices, and ghostly gestures, " 'Mamma, Mamma, I see him, at last.. I think.. I'm going. . . to love him,"' drawing "love" way out, "And she died with the only expression of happiness they had ever seen on her face in months." There were serious furrowed brows, one sided smiles, open mouths, but complete attention. This was story time. No child was immune. One wonders if any single classroom held this much rapt regard. "And they say that on the day of her funeral, when her coffin was carried to the wagon, a great black bird swooped down from the sky and just hung in the air above her. Around it's neck was a bell that sounded the most mournful sound ever heard."