I awoke to the now familiar smell of a hard green pillow, its fire-resistant plastic pressed against my face. Nearby my friend lay on his cot several inches off the floor saying modeh ani, the prayer of gratitude recited daily upon waking. Outside our room a correctional officer—definitely don't refer to him as a prison guard—stared at his desk, slowly collecting overtime until the end of his 16-hour weekend shift.
My friend and I were here to lead Rosh Hashanah services for the Jewish residents of Rikers Island, the overcrowded New York City jail complex notorious for its violence. Due to religious prohibitions on traveling during the festival, we stayed on the island for three nights in a room generally used for educational programming. Morning services would be starting in about an hour, and like any other morning, it was time to brush our teeth, get dressed, and shake off lingering grogginess.
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