It’s not like in the movies. That stuff really happens, but it doesn’t all happen in an hour and a half, in three acts that build to a dramatic conclusion, like it does on the big screen. You think it’s going to be exactly like that, especially after you’ve been convicted and sentenced, and you’re still being housed at the county jail, and some guy asks if you’ve ever been to the “pen.” When you tell him no, his face expresses grave sympathy, and a grimace of pain. This is meant to communicate that unimaginable horrors await you. Movie scenes of brutal rape and blood-dripping shanks flash through your mind. All the other repeat offenders make a point to extend their heartfelt condolences about your impending arrival in certain hell. But you also overhear these same former convicts, these prison ambassadors of goodwill, talking among themselves about how they can’t wait to get back to the pen. The contradiction first confuses you, then gives you hope. Maybe they just get off on putting a good scare into people. You tell yourself there’s really nothing to worry about. Whatever happens, you’ll deal with it. You have no other choice.