Three years in Folsom State Prison meant anything in comparison was paradise; even his old home despite his room being given away, it was still better than a cell.

Pope steps into his old bedroom and his nose crinkles, it belonged to his twenty-five year old nephew now and the kid had a tendency to leave his clothes strewn about—both dirty and clean. "Fuckin' animal" He mutters to himself, flicking a jumper damp with sweat off the bed so he could sit.