Cornhole at the Institution.
The recreational yard of the mental institution in Ohio was nothing like I had imagined.
A tall, chain-link fence enclosed the area, stretching along the perimeter like an iron curtain meant to keep us in. Beyond it, trees swayed in the crisp Ohio air, their leaves already touched with the golden hues of early autumn.
The ground was mostly concrete, cracked in some places, and faded chalk markings showed remnants of old games patients had played before. A few weathered picnic tables were scattered around, some occupied by patients quietly reading or talking amongst themselves. Others sat alone, lost in thought, staring into the distance as if trying to see beyond the fence.
But my attention was drawn to Dan, who stood near an old, makeshift wooden board, pr
