On a frigid late December morning in the throes of the Omicron surge, I flicked off my alarm and peeked out the window: pitch black. I was awake, I was sure, and not lost in an REM-induced mirage. But it certainly felt like a dream, as I strapped on my backpack and walked through the doors of my old high school.
In the 10 years since graduation, I had had a recurring nightmare that I was back inside that building. But now I was an adult in need of a part-time job to supplement my income as a freelance writer, and our nation’s public school system was facing the very real nightmare of a substitute teachers’ shortage. I set aside my fears and applied for the job.
