This is the courtyard view of the building where I live. Inside are four separate housing units that hold more than 250 people. Half of the 20 buildings that make my prison are used solely for housing. Some housing units have doors that you can open and close yourself; others have doors that move and lock automatically. Not all housing units have a courtyard, nor do they all have cells. Some are used specifically for people new to prison, others for people who are dying. There is even one housing unit used strictly as a place to administer punishment.

This is the building where I stay, and these are some of my neighbors. Some days there are 89 of us, some days there are 94. It’s hard for me to make friends because the prison moves everyone here so frequently, usually to other buildings but also to other prisons.

This is one of the guards that takes turns watching over the building’s four housing units. He spends his shift in the elevated station surrounded by windows. We all call it “the bubble.” A lot of things happen here that the guards don’t see, and a lot that they choose to ignore.

Here’s me writing on the tablet that the prison arranged for my family to buy and send me. I can use it to listen to music, write stories and message with people who contact me. But it costs a lot to use, and my stories almost never pay money.

This is the dayroom TV. It’s usually always crowded because not everyone here can afford to pay to purchase their own TV from the prison store. What to know about the dayroom TV: sports take precedence over everything else, and don’t change the channel without first making sure that it’s OK with everyone else.

Once or twice a week I call friends and family. There’s always a long line for the phone, and the prison bills for each minute we talk. Those without money, called indigent residents, receive two free 15-minute calls every month. But not everyone here has someone to call. So, rather than let their free calls go to waste, some people broker deals to trade them for a bar of soap or a package of noodles.

This is Tim, my downstairs neighbor (he drew these pictures). He’s thinking about his wife and wishing that he were a better husband. I enjoy spending time with Tim because he’s as good at saying grace and praying for others as he is at drawing pictures.

It can be hard to get comfortable in prison but these two have figured it out. Were I to guess, I’d say their friends and family help to support them — the light, fan, TV and accessories together cost about $400.

This is Tim’s neighbor, Rocky. Rocky and I are waiting for Tim to be called to the prison staff office. They’re going to give him a cardboard box to pack up his belongings. They won’t tell us where he’s going but we know it’s another facility. Hopefully, the next facility will better prepare him for his eventual return to his community and loved ones.

Idaho corrections says that 98% of us serving long-term sentences in Idaho will one day be released from prison.

I wonder if my prison will miss me when it’s finally my time to go home.

Support prison artists and writers.