"Always are." Murphy shrugged and picked up a box of crayons, turning it over in his hands. He remembered 'art therapy' when he was going to counseling. What a joke that had been. Not the therapy itself, but Murphy attending. he hadn't wanted to, hadn't really cared. He'd been going through the motions in the office and going through bottle after bottle of scotch at home. And every day, Carol hated him a little more....

"So, uh, I don't mean to pry, but...you done some time? I'm fresh out of the can myself, that's the reason I'm asking. Stupid shit got me in there."

He didn't mind fessing up to being an ex-con - literally, he had figured - but he knew the conclusions people could jump to. Even other prisoners. He didn't want to give the impression, that he was violently dangerous or some kind of drug fiend. On the other hand, 'stupid stuff' was vague enough that if this guy was a violent con...Murphy could swing it so there wasn't any problem.