Dixon rehabilitation institute for delinquents

Steve Thomas was eighteen years old, and he was innocent.

At least, that's what he kept telling himself as the black government transport car rolled through the enormous iron gates of the Dixon Rehabilitation Institute for Delinquents.

He stared through the tinted window at the sprawling estate. There were immaculate lawns, flowerbeds, white-columned buildings, and a fountain in the center of the circular driveway. It looked more like an expensive finishing school than a correctional facility.

Welcome to Dixon," said the driver.

Steve looked at him. "I'm not supposed to be here. There was a mistake. I didn't commit that robbery."

The driver didn't answer.

Steve had been convicted despite his protests. His sentence was unusual: an eighteen-month rehabilitation placement at Dixon, a privately operated institution with special authorization from the state.

The official description called it an innovative program for correcting antisocial behavior in young male offenders.

Steve was about to discover what that really meant.

Inside the reception building, a middle-aged woman in a navy-blue suit waited behind an enormous polished desk.

"Steven Thomas?"

"Steve."

"Here, we use the names assigned by the administration. Please follow me."

She introduced herself as Director Margaret Whitmore.

She handed him a cream-colored folder.

Steve frowned.

"Relationship preparation?"

Director Whitmore smiled.

"Mr. Thomas, Dixon has a very successful record. Our objective is to transform unruly young men into refined, accomplished young women who can take their places in respectable society."

Steve stared at her.

"You've got to be kidding."

"I'm afraid not."

She closed the folder.