On a recent tour of the Concord prison, an inmate told a group of young, first-time offenders not yet imprisoned that there's nothing worse about incarceration than being locked away from family and friends.

"I don't care how tough you are," inmate John Field told the crew. "When you see your mother break down and cry, you're going to break down, too."

If there's any doubt that prison is equally hard on the family and friends left behind, come to the prison during visiting hours. Last week alone, 967 people, nearly 170 of them kids, came to the men's prison in Concord to see a loved one doing time.

Inside the visiting room, circumstances differ greatly, but hopes do not. Whether the relationship is new - like the pen pals who married having never met on the outside - or long-established, visitors and inmates come hoping their relationship will survive the sentence.

Last month, one couple celebrated their second wedding anniversary under the watch of cameras and corrections officers. A mother and son discussed what the relatives were up to and what he'd been learning in science class behind the walls. Nearby, two friends came by to see a 19-year-old in for arson, hoping their support would get him back on the right track.

Not all of the prison's 1,300 inmates get visitors, either because they broke prison rules, are too new to get visitors or have no one to visit them. (A bit less than half the inmates had a visitor last week.) But those who can see someone from the outside hold the privilege dear, even through it means being strip-searched after each visit.

And they hold it dear even if visiting is emotionally painful.

Kenneth Hopkins, 58 and serving a lengthy sentence for sexually assaulting children, shared popcorn and conversation with his mother and brother recently. "I would prefer not to have visits," he said. "Sometimes it hurts to know how much you miss what you've lost."

His elderly mother disagreed. She's worried she'll die before her son is released on parole, possibly in 2009.

Heather Metcalf, a nurse, drives from Massachusetts a few times a month just to hold hands and talk with her boyfriend, Daniel Vangordon, who has been incarcerated since 2002 on a sexual assault charge.

"Not having him home is the hardest part," she said. "After the visits, I wait for his letters to see how he's doing."

The prison allows inmates two visits a week, but they can see no more than three people each time. That means relatives, friends and children must take turns. Visitors get to the prison early to avoid wasting visiting time signing in. Once they clear a metal detector, families file into a large room that looks more like a McDonald's dining room than the room in those dank prisons of the movies.

Visitors scan the room's nearly 50 tables for their inmate, and they walk to them, arms outstretched, for the 15-second embrace allowed at the start and end of each visiting session. The visits last about three hours, and the list of rules is so long it would be easier to say what inmates and their visitors can do.

The Department of Corrections tries to make the room comfortable by providing Bibles, toys, board games and cards. Vending machines sell soda, candy and sandwiches at fairly reasonable rates, and prisoner artwork decorates the wall. (One inmate's work is recognizable by his depiction of the corrections officers: They are always overweight.) And when the camera is working and has film, the administration lets families be photographed with their inmate.

But there's no forgetting that this is prison. Inmates can bring nothing with them, and visitors are allowed to carry in only $20 in quarters for the vending machines. (The mother of a newborn baby wasn't even allowed to bring the baby's bottle on one recent visit.) Also, more than a dozen cameras monitor the room while corrections officers walk between tables, making sure inmates and visitors aren't touching each other inappropriately or sharing smuggled goods. (next page »)