BELLEFONTE -- At 5:30 a.m. a corrections officer comes by and calls out Bill's number. The C.O. listens for the inmate to mumble a "Yes" before moving on to the next cell in the block.

Another day has begun inside the confines of Rockview prison.

Bill, who asked that his real name not be used, rises and makes his way around the 6- by 8-foot cell. Looking through the metal grill of his cell door, he is immediately reminded that this day, like yesterday and the day before, will be spent as a prisoner.

The toilet and sink lie inside the door immediately to the right. A hot water pipe runs along the back wall, and Bill's bed takes up the left side of the cell. There is a little floor space for some boxes of personal belongings and books.

"Basically, you're living in a bathroom," he says of the cramped surroundings.

But Bill says he shouldn't complain about space because, unlike most inmates, he does not have a cellmate.

"I have a single cell because of my mental health history prior to coming in," he says, adding that a single is "very much the exception."

Only 560 of the 1,928 inmates Rockview now houses have single cells, administrative assistant Jack Allar says. The institution is operating at 54 percent above its 1,250-inmate capacity, but Allar says Rockview's overcrowding is near the state average.

Getting ready for work, Bill combs his hair, puts on his glasses, and runs his hand over a wiry mustache and beard. He selects his clothes from an identical wardrobe of "browns," the institutional shirt and pants worn by inmates.

By about 6:30 a.m. the C.O. comes to unlock each individual cell and also remove the bar lock that secures each of the 15 cells on the row.

"If you want breakfast, it's your responsibility," Bill says, adding that the various cell blocks eat in rotation because the dining hall cannot accommodate all the inmates at once.

Work begins at 8 a.m. Bill works in Rockview's bake shop where most of his time is spent cleaning. Almost all the inmates hold some job responsibilities at the state correctional institution.

Bill eats lunch while at work. Then at about 12:30 p.m. comes what the inmates simply refer to as "count."

Three times a day the C.O.s have to account for all the inmates, Allar says. For working inmates, this means being lined up and counted. Others on the block must return to their cells, which are locked with the bar.

The count does not determine which specific inmates are present, it just makes sure the final number matches the total number of inmates in the general population.

"No inmate is out wandering around during count," Bill says, adding that this process sometimes takes 45 minutes.

After the count clears and Bill returns to his block, he has only a few minutes to decide how to pass the next two hours -- either in or out. If he chooses to hang out on the block, he must take care to stay outside the cell, because when the cell doors close, they stay closed until 3 p.m.

The block area is about 20 feet wide and filled with picnic-type tables and benches. Bill says because he lives on the upper tier, things stay fairly quiet unless "you get somebody with a penetrating voice, then you know he's down there playing cards. Bill says card games are the most common and popular activity on the block. Groups of four players will usually claim some of the various benches amidst a few games of checkers or chess.

Some inmates talk with the C.O.s on a social basis. But Bill does not associate with the guards much, and when he does, he addresses them as "Mr. or Sergeant whoever."

In addition to the group of inmates he plays cards with every now and then, Bill says he became friends with the "guy next door." When Bill first came on the block, his "neighbor" essentially showed him how the block worked.

"You learn what you can do, what you can't do . . . and what you can get away with," he says with a laugh.

"(Other inmates) will warn you to stay away from some people. They'll say 'Don't let him bum cigarettes 'cause he's got plenty of his own.' "

Bill says inmates on the block spend a good deal of time just "bullshitting." But some unwritten rules dictate what should and should not be said.

"It's considered bad form to ask about the details of how long you've been in and what you're in for," he says. "No one's really proud of being in jail. You've fucked up somewhere and been stupid enough to get caught."

When the bars reopen at 3 p.m., for a period known as "blockout," inmates have access to the shower room and can roam the block. Dinner rotations begin during the next two hours.

Following a 6 p.m. lock down and the second count comes another blockout.

Bill says although a certain amount of tension does exist within the prison population, the stereotype of a cutthroat, dangerous cell block is not a true reflection of the environment at Rockview.

"It's just too crowded in here to have any constant tension," he says. "You don't have to be civil. You just have to give (other inmates) respect and you can avoid trouble, from whites or blacks."

Bill says he can only speak for his cell block and adds that other blocks may be worse off.

"Its very true that you tread very carefully for awhile," he says. "But no one can live in isolation. People do gravitate to each other; you form certain cliques."

"People in jail by their very nature are suspicious of each other . . . I mean, we're criminals," he says with a self-mocking laugh.

The shower room is opened again at 6 p.m., this time for only half an hour. At 9 p.m. the C.O.s slide the bar lock into place and lock each individual cell.

"Anybody out after 9 o'clock is really an exception," Bill says.

The inmates of Rockview prison wait through the final count of the day. Then they flick off their individual cell lights as they finish reading, talking or playing cards with cell mates.

Bill eventually settles down to sleep, ending another day of incarceration.