THREE DAYS AT HAUS MORGENROT, OR: THE CACTUS REMAINS FLAMMABLE
September 5–7, 2026 — Days 1, 2, and 3 of 6
There are certain phrases that sound intelligent when you first invent them.
Listen with interest, not investment.
Very nice.
Very mature.
Put that motherfucker on a coffee mug.
Then go work three consecutive twelve-hour shifts at Haus Morgenrot and discover whether you actually believe it.
Because philosophy is easy when you're sitting at home.
Philosophy gets considerably harder when somebody has opened an unauthorized barbershop thirty minutes before free time.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
This story begins Saturday.
And, unusually, nothing was on fire yet.
DAY ONE — SATURDAY
I arrived early, as usual.
The first good news was that a bunch of hallway cats had discharged Friday.
Good.
I mean that sincerely.
Get out.
Go home.
Go wherever you're supposed to go next.
Build something.
Become boring.
And ideally, years from now, don't remember Haus Morgenrot.
Hell, don't remember me.
If Mr. Germlin becomes an insignificant background character in somebody's successful life, that's probably the best possible ending.
Then I walked outside and discovered hallway cats petting actual cats.
This facility has become recursive.
One particular actual cat has earned the name:
BUTTHEAD.
Not because he's mean.
Because I want to pet him.
He knows I want to pet him.
I extend hand.
Butthead withdraws head.
I extend hand again.
Butthead:
Absolutely fucking not.
Fine.
Your name is Butthead now.
MR. GERMLIN HAS ENTERED THE BUILDING
Before I'd even properly settled:
“Hi, Mr. Germlin!”
Then another:
“MR. GERMLIN!”
Sir.
I just fucking got here.
Please allow the employee to finish loading.
Saturday is supposed to be relatively relaxed.
Which means Saturday is when hallway cats begin believing every moment of existence is potentially:
FREE TIME.
“Is it free time?”
No.
“Can I get a snack?”
No.
“Is it free time now?”
Brother, four minutes have passed.
No.
Somewhere inside Haus Morgenrot there must be an ancient prophecy stating that if enough hallway cats ask whether it's free time, eventually the schedule will surrender.
It does not.
BORING TECH MAKES A MISTAKE
I had also made an error on a newer TDCJ client's clothing inventory.
Wrong information carried over.
He brought it back.
I looked at it.
Yep.
My mistake.
Corrected it.
Moved on.
That's it.
No courtroom defense.
No elaborate explanation about why technically Mercury was in retrograde and therefore the inventory sheet misunderstood my intentions.
I fucked up paperwork.
I fixed paperwork.
Boring Tech can make mistakes.
The important part is that Boring Tech does not marry them.
THE SACRED DORITO INCIDENT
Saturday also reminded me of one of Haus Morgenrot's greatest recurring villains:
THE FUCKING VENDING MACHINES.
These things occasionally accept money and then apparently decide commerce is optional.
Somebody once legitimately purchased two large bags of chips.
Both got stuck.
Immediately, nearby SACP clients discovered a new theory of property rights:
“FREE CHIPS!”
No.
Someone paid for those.
One enterprising motherfucker even bought another item strategically positioned so its fall would knock one of the trapped bags loose.
Was this mechanically intelligent?
Absolutely.
Was the resulting chip bag suddenly his?
NO.
At the time, I spent too much energy trying to personally defend the man's snack investment.
Eventually I realized:
The appropriate people know.
There is a process.
I do not need to become:
MR. GERMLIN: GUARDIAN OF THE SACRED DORITO.
Correct.
Report.
Direct.
Move.
This will become important later.
Very fucking important.
MOVIE NIGHT, MY BELOATHED
Saturday night eventually arrived.
Dinner.
Groups.
Late trays.
Snacks.
And then:
Movie Night.
I hate Movie Night.
Not because movies are bad.
Because apparently putting hallway cats near snacks and loosely structured evening programming causes everybody to develop independent foreign policy.
Somebody wants laundry.
Somebody wants their room.
Somebody wants snacks.
Somebody wants to wander.
Somebody believes possessing a bag of Takis constitutes diplomatic immunity.
I tried to maintain reasonable order.
Was it perfect?
Fuck no.
I estimate:
91.12% accuracy.
This is not a tool-assisted speedrun.
I'm not trying to perfect Haus Morgenrot.
I'm trying to follow policy, keep reasonable order, avoid freestyling, and reach ten o'clock without thirty people escaping into the parking lot carrying vending-machine contraband.
At one point Cactus Cat asked:
“You still punch cactus?”
Yes, sir.
I punch cactus daily.
Consistency.
Eventually nine-fifteen arrived.
People went where they needed to go.
Nothing exploded.
Then:
10:00 PM.
Clock out.
Day One complete.
And the lesson seemed simple:
Don't chase.
Don't carry.
Don't freestyle.
Correct what needs correcting.
Document what needs documenting.
Return to neutral.
Wonderful philosophy.
Surely Sunday would respect it.
DAY TWO — SUNDAY
Sunday had an extraordinarily generous schedule.
Free time.
GI.
More free time.
Lunch.
Recreation.
More loosely structured time.
Dinner.
Group.
Final group.
And after 7:40 PM?
The promised land:
FREE TIME UNTIL 9:15.
All they had to do was survive the final group.
Thirty minutes.
That's it.
Thirty.
Fucking.
Minutes.
And somebody apparently decided:
This would be an excellent time to cut hair with razors.
In the back of group.
Welcome to:
HAUS MORGENROT SUPERCUTS.
Another staff member saw it.
SOD heard about it.
SOD entered.
SOD asked who was responsible.
Nobody wanted to say.
Silence.
And SOD essentially responded:
Fine. Then I'm holding the community accountable.
Free time?
DEAD.
Suddenly everybody developed tremendous enthusiasm for criminal justice reform.
“Can't you just hold them accountable?”
“We're sorry!”
“Can we still—”
Nope.
You had your opportunity when SOD asked.
Now everybody's evening gets to participate in the consequences.
And I'm standing there thinking:
YOU HAD THIRTY FUCKING MINUTES LEFT.
Thirty!
You could have waited.
Group ends.
Go do whatever you're permitted to do.
Cut hair when and where you're actually allowed.
Enjoy free time until 9:15.
Instead:
razor noises
And thus was born perhaps the most important managerial insight of the entire weekend:
DOING SOMETHING STUPID IN THE LAST THIRTY MINUTES BEFORE FREE TIME IS A POOR STRATEGIC DECISION.
Not immoral.
Not metaphysical.
Not a violation of Sun Tzu.
Just:
poor strategy.
INTEREST VERSUS ATTENTION
But Sunday also revealed a problem with my own doctrine.
I had been operating under:
Listen with interest, not investment.
Which still works.
I don't need to emotionally absorb every:
“Fuck this place.”
“This badge is bullshit.”
“They shouldn't have written me up.”
“I don't care.”
Fine.
You are entitled to your personal soundtrack.
But if I'm assigned to monitor the room, I can't translate not invested into:
I HAVE CEASED PROCESSING ENVIRONMENTAL INFORMATION.
Because apparently Peer Reflection can become Supercuts while you're watching the door.
So the doctrine required an update:
LISTEN WITH ATTENTION, NOT EMOTIONAL INVESTMENT.
I don't need to care about every argument.
I do need to notice when somebody starts operating a barber college in the back of group.
Fair.
Mission changed.
Adjust mission.
HAT CAT
Sunday also provided a smaller lesson.
I saw somebody wearing something he wasn't supposed to be wearing.
Could I chase him?
Sure.
Did I?
No.
Eventually he came near me.
“What's your name?”
He gave it.
“I'm writing you up for the hat.”
Done.
No chase scene.
No hallway pursuit.
No Tommy Lee Jones.
The violation did not become more important simply because the hallway cat was twenty feet away.
Don't chase what eventually delivers itself.
AND THEN EMS ARRIVED
Because Sunday apparently looked at everything already accomplished and said:
Not enough plot.
EMS arrived near the end of the night.
Why?
Not relevant to this particular story because I don't have enough established information to connect it to everything else.
And this is where another doctrine matters:
BORING TECH DOES NOT MAKE FAN FICTION.
Two things happening on the same night does not automatically mean they're related.
Record what you know.
Do not invent the connective tissue.
Sunday eventually ended.
And I thought I understood the lesson.
Then I went home.
INTERMISSION — AT&T PRESENTS: REBOOT
I wanted to watch Tales from the Crypt.
That's it.
I wasn't attempting to launch a satellite.
I wasn't building a nuclear reactor.
I wanted Internet.
Router:
Rebooting.
Fine.
Router:
Rebooting.
Didn't you just—
REBOOTING.
Four minutes became fifteen.
Fifteen became forever.
Eventually the fucking thing spent nearly eight hours contemplating whether broadband was truly its calling.
And Monday morning?
Still fucked.
Wonderful.
Excellent.
Thank you, technology.
Time for Labor Day.
DAY THREE — LABOR DAY
Monday turned out to be Sunday wearing a fake mustache.
The hallway cats had free time from roughly 8:30 AM until noon.
Lunch.
Then more free time until roughly 1:50.
Hours.
Literal hours.
And still:
“Is it free time?”
No.
“Is it free time now?”
No.
“But somebody said—”
I don't care.
Look at the schedule.
At one point recreation was apparently transformed through oral tradition into free time.
No.
RECREATION.
Different word.
Different block.
The schedule does not operate through democratic referendum.
REBEL, EMPEROR OF HAUS MORGENROT
Meanwhile:
Rebel.
French bulldog.
Adopted by the facility director.
One particular client, A1, has been trusted with helping care for and walk Rebel.
And I swear this man has acquired:
DERIVATIVE FRENCH BULLDOG IMMUNITY.
Hallway cat walks somewhere:
“Where are you going?”
Hallway cat approaches vending machine:
“Is it free time?”
A1 walks past holding Rebel's leash:
...
Carry on, sir.
🐶
I teased him:
“You so much as do something wrong with that dog, she's gonna pull out a cross and crucify you like Jesus Christ.”
And because God has a sense of humor, the facility director appeared beside him right around the end of that sentence.
Apparently she only caught:
“…Jesus Christ.”
Excellent.
A1 heard the whole fucking thing.
I then pulled up on the joke and gave him his flowers because, seriously, he's been taking the responsibility seriously.
That's important too.
Push up when somebody's doing well.
Pull up when somebody needs to do better.
And underneath all the jokes, I sincerely want these people to succeed.
I want them to leave Haus Morgenrot.
I want them to build something better.
I want them to make different decisions.
But if somebody is determined to fail?
Then fail.
If you're going to fail spectacularly and replay the entire fucking level, that's your decision.
JUST DON'T DRAG ME THROUGH THE CONTINUE SCREEN WITH YOU.
Their recovery belongs to them.
Their consequences belong to them.
Their life belongs to them.
I can care.
I cannot drive.
THEN MR. GERMLIN MADE A POOR STRATEGIC DECISION
Ah.
There it is.
Because philosophy is always funniest when the philosopher gets punched by his own philosophy.
Dinner went reasonably well.
Barbecue chicken.
Good baked beans.
Good potato salad.
Mac and cheese?
Hot fucking mess.
Rice?
Also denied parole.
Then came the evening group.
And after Sunday night's Supercuts incident, I wanted Monday to go correctly.
Maybe a little too badly.
I wanted them to make it through group.
I wanted them to get their free time.
I wanted them to stop doing dumb shit long enough to reach 7:40.
And then Client News Network reported:
“SOD said we're not getting free time.”
My radio was on.
I hadn't heard that.
People started getting worked up.
And somewhere inside my brain, the doctrine disconnected from the server.
I walked in.
And:
“EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UP.”
Yep.
Mr. Germlin crashed out.
I told them to act like they had some goddamn common sense.
I explained what was happening.
And, ironically?
They quieted down.
They lined up.
Mission accomplished!
Except:
wrong fucking method.
Night SOD got on me for the language.
Fair.
Because getting the desired behavioral result doesn't automatically make the method good.
That's uncomfortable.
It's also true.
I HAD BECOME INVESTED
That's what happened.
I wasn't merely enforcing the schedule anymore.
Somewhere along the way, my personal mission became:
I NEED THESE MOTHERFUCKERS TO GET THEIR FREE TIME.
Why?
That's not mine.
I don't award free time.
I don't cancel free time.
SOD does.
If they fuck it up, they fuck it up.
If they preserve it, wonderful.
If somebody says SOD canceled it and I didn't hear that instruction?
The boring response was available the entire time:
“I haven't received that instruction from SOD. Follow the current schedule until we're told otherwise.”
That's it.
Instead I promoted myself to:
SECRETARY OF FREE TIME.
Poor strategic decision.
And then, almost immediately afterward, I heard another staff member propose a solution to a different problem involving the washroom.
SOD's response?
Essentially:
“That's not your decision. That's my decision.”
Oh.
There it fucking is.
The universe had provided footnotes.
DON'T PROMOTE YOURSELF TO MISSION COMMANDER
That became Day Three's lesson.
Do your part.
Do it correctly.
If the battlefield changes, adjust.
But don't respond to every operational problem by personally expanding your jurisdiction.
If SOD makes a decision:
SOD owns it.
If management changes the schedule:
Follow it.
If a hallway cat claims management changed the schedule:
Client News Network is not an authorized policy source.
If you're uncertain:
Ask.
Don't freestyle.
Don't rescue.
Don't manufacture responsibility because you desperately want everything to go correctly.
Because sometimes trying too hard to prevent everybody else's crash-out produces:
your own crash-out.
That's exactly what happened.
And I'm not going to pretend otherwise.
TEN ZERO ZERO
Eventually the cactus stopped burning.
Free time happened.
Late trays happened.
Snacks happened.
The building survived.
And I made it to the most sacred number in Haus Morgenrot:
10:00 PM.
Not 9:58.
Not 10:07.
Ten. Zero. Zero.
Until that moment?
I'm available.
I'm working.
I'm doing what I'm being paid to do.
Then:
BEEP BEEP.
Watch says ten.
Tail proceeds toward facial-recognition time clock.
Face recognized.
Clock out.
Haus Morgenrot purchased Mr. Germlin until 10:00 PM.
They did not purchase the DLC.
Night shift had made Labor Day food.
I grabbed a hot dog.
Thanked them.
And decided next time there's some special-day spread, maybe I'll chip in too.
Nothing profound.
Somebody did something nice.
I benefited.
Next time I can contribute.
Then I walked outside and waited fourteen fucking minutes for Uber.
Three days down.
Three remaining.
SO WHAT DID THREE DAYS TEACH ME?
Maybe this:
Consistency does not mean perfection.
Saturday, I followed the doctrine.
Sunday, circumstances exposed a weakness in the doctrine.
Monday, I violated the doctrine.
And that's okay—not because crashing out is good, but because now I know exactly where the tripwire is.
I care about these people more than I sometimes admit.
I want them to succeed.
I want them to leave.
I want them to stop making decisions that send them right back through the same revolving door.
But wanting something good for somebody doesn't make me responsible for achieving it.
So:
Listen with attention, not emotional investment.
Behavior is information.
Actions speak louder than promises.
Don't chase.
Don't freestyle.
Ask when uncertain.
Document behavior, not the story you've invented about it.
Give people their flowers when they've earned them.
Pull up when somebody can do better.
Let management own management decisions.
When the battlefield changes, change the mission.
But—
DON'T PROMOTE YOURSELF TO MISSION COMMANDER.
And perhaps most importantly:
I cannot make hallway cats learn.
I can make sure Mr. Germlin learns.
That's enough.
Tomorrow is Day Four.
Tomorrow gets a fresh clipboard.
Tomorrow doesn't inherit Monday's crash-out.
And if somebody makes another poor strategic decision?
Fine.
Write what happened.
Handle what belongs to me.
Return to neutral.
Clock out at ten.
Go home.
And hopefully—
hopefully—
the fucking Internet works.
Jerry: “Think the cactus learned anything?”
Me: “It's a cactus.”
Jerry: “So no?”
🌵
Me: “At least the cactus knows when it's fucking free time.”
Three down.
Three to go.
— Jerry “The Ankle-Biter” Silverhand