Dominic put his arm around Wentworth. "Not walking out," he said. "Walking in."

Dominic Purcell squinted against the Moroccan sun. It wasn't the scorching heat of Lincoln Burrows' many close calls, but the quieter, heavier heat of a man who’d spent years playing a bulldog and was now tired of the bite. He was here for Wentworth.

Dominic stabbed a fork into his salad. "I think a role is a coat. You take it off at the end of the day."

"Is that right?" Robert smiled, tapping his own chest. "Then why does my coat still have teeth marks inside?"