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"Los niños están," Miguel tells me before I even have a chance to look across the street. 3:30 in the afternoon, and the students that come for tutoring arrive. But we do not open our gates for the rest of the kids until 5. No matter. On most afternoons, they gather outside the gate anyway. They pester us to open the doors, to let them in early. They push the buttons on the electronic lock, as maybe one of these times some random pattern of beeps will actually work. Some of the little boys consistently start to climb up the outside of the fence, as though we'll congratulate them once they scale the top and land on the other side. We don't. We open the gate and shoo them out.

Some days are louder than others. This afternoon starts lustily. The little boys entertain themselves by chasing a street dog around. "Stop bothering the dog," I shout at them from across the yard. (ugh! why am I shouting?!) I get up and go to the gate and step outside. "Please. Stop bothering the dog and settle down." No one really listens. Finally the dog grows tired of the mob and shows itself annoyed, scaring a boy but hurting no one, and leaves. Without the dog, the boys continue to bother each other. Eventually that leads to a fight, and we separate a couple of luchadores. Each tells us that the other started it. "No matter. No more fighting," we tell them all, "or you won't be able to come in today." The crowd grows, and the pestering at the gate continues.
"Kristy! Kristy! How many more minutes?"
"20."
"Aw."
"Kristy! Kristy! How many more minutes?"
"14."
"Aw."
And on it goes.

At 4:58 we give in, and open the gates to the mob of minis. The din continues. The little boys stack blocks into towers until they tumble and then they do it all over again. The big boys form teams and play soccer until they are covered in muddy dust. The girls chase each other in circles, playing tag, until its finally time to start. They all form pushy compact lines at the door. The little boys race up the stairs, clamor into seats, grab pencils, furiously ready to start.

We stand and wait for them to be quiet.
We pass out the pages.
And then, almost like a miracle.
Near silence.
For more than 20 minutes, these boys, sweaty, loud, generally irreverent boys, crayons gripped tightly, color cats in peace.
The two boys that were fighting in the street less than a couple hours ago stand next to each other, all smiles, eager to show off their work.
And we shake our heads, amazed at ordinary grace once again.