I bought a prison in the United States.

Lin Ge pushed open the door and walked into a small reception room.

The reception room contained a table, two plastic chairs, and a 14-inch television.

A daytime talk show is playing on TV, and the host is interviewing a woman wearing an extravagant feather scarf, with the voice turned up very high.

On the table sat a potted green ivy that was almost dead, its leaves yellowing and curled at the edges, looking as exhausted as the factory itself.

A woman in her forties was sitting behind a table, knitting a sweater.

She wore thick glasses, making her gaze appear as if she were looking through a thin mist.

Lin Ge stepped forward with steady steps and said softly:

"Hello madam, I'm Ringo Chen, here to see Mr. Danforth."

The woman looked up, sized him up for a few seconds, and then gestured with her chin towards an iron gate:

"Go straight, turn left, the second door, he should be in his office."

She hesitated for a moment, then added, "However, he's not in a good mood right now."

Lin Ge thanked her and pushed open the iron gate.

The sight inside the factory momentarily stunned him.

This is a typical small-to-medium-sized metal processing plant from the 1980s.

The ceiling was high, and several rows of fluorescent lights hung from the exposed steel beams, their light refracting through the metallic dust to create a hazy, grayish hue.

The workshop is divided into several areas: stamping area, welding area, grinding area and finished product stacking area.

The machines were roaring, and the air was filled with the smells of machine oil and workers' sweat.

But what caught Lingo's attention was not these things, but the emptiness of the workshop.

Lin Ge quickly counted; the stamping area was large, but only three stamping machines were operating.

The welding area clearly has ten workstations, but only four are occupied.

The finished product stacking area, which should have been filled with goods, only had a few scattered stacks on the pallets.

The workers were working, but not very fast, and there was a sense of slackness and complacency in their movements.

Someone looked up at him without a trace of curiosity, as if they were used to strangers coming and going.

The factory was panting, but not very strongly.

Lin Ge walked through the workshop toward his office.

His gaze swept over the machines, workers, and finished products in the factory, quickly assessing them in his mind.

A factory on the verge of bankruptcy, or a factory struggling to survive.

This is both bad news and good news.

The bad news is that such customers may not be able to pay, or may go bankrupt at any time, leaving behind a pile of bad debts.

The good news is that such customers don't have many options.

He needed cheap contractors, and the prison provided the cheapest labor.

The office door was half open.

Lin Ge knocked on the door frame, and a rough, hoarse voice came from inside:

"Come in."

The office was small, about fifteen square meters, crammed with a huge oak desk, two filing cabinets and a guest chair.

The table was piled high with documents and empty coffee cups, almost obscuring the surface.

The walls were also covered with things.

Business license, industry certification, a few yellowed photos, and an American flag.

And a Reagan campaign poster in a cheap frame, exactly the same as the one in Ringo's office.

When Ringo went in, Mr. Danforth was standing by the window with his back to the door.

He was wearing a dark blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was tall and might have been very muscular in the past, but now his muscles were loose and his belly was slightly protruding, like a balloon that had been inflated by life.

But what attracted Lin Ge's attention the most was the huge keyword above the other person's head: "sorrow".

Danvers turned around. He was in his early sixties, but the wrinkles around his eyes and deep nasolabial folds made him look more weathered than his actual age. He held out his hand:

"Mr. Chen, please have a seat."

Ringo shook Danforth's hand and felt a strong grip.

His hands were rough and calloused, hands that had truly worked.

Danforth sat down behind his desk, which was piled high with cigarette butts.

He looked Lin Ge up and down, his gaze carrying the scrutiny of a factory owner, as if he were assessing the value of a machine.

You are not the person I imagined.

Danforth said.

"What kind of person do you imagine me to be, Mr. Danforth?" Ringo asked.

Danforth hesitated for a moment, "I thought a prison warden would be bigger, more..."

"Even more rude?"

Lingo gave a professional smile:

"I'm a bankrupt businessman, not a retired football player."

Danforth took a cigar from the drawer, but didn't light it; he just held it in his hand and played with it.

"Let's get down to business. You said you have a stamping machine, is it still working?"

Lin Ge took a folder out of his briefcase, opened it, and found several photos inside.

That was a photo he took this morning at the factory: the outer casing of the stamping machine, its internal structure, and some samples of old stamped parts.

"The stamping machine is under maintenance and will be operational tomorrow."

Lin Ge laid the photos out one by one on the table:

"This is the condition of the machine. These are stamped parts produced previously; the precision is still acceptable."

Danforth picked up the photos and examined them carefully, one by one.

His expression changed from doubt to seriousness; these samples could indeed meet his workpiece requirements, as long as they were genuine.

Half a minute later, he put the photo down, leaned back in his chair, and asked:

What is your quote?

"25% lower than the market price."

Danforth raised his eyebrows:

"25%? Are you sure you'll still make a profit with that?"

Lingo maintained his polite smile.

"Prison labor costs are low. Inmates have no medical insurance, no pensions, and no overtime pay, so my quotes are naturally profitable."

Danforth had no prior knowledge of prison operations, and had only heard of the concept of private prisons last year, so he remained noncommittal about Ringo's words.

He picked up the cigar, smelled it under his nose, then put it down. He picked up a palm-sized metal part from the table and threw it in front of Ringo.

The part rolled twice on the table, making a crisp metallic clanging sound.

"The order comes from a General Motors company. They want stamped parts for car suspension brackets, and the monthly demand is 4.5 pieces."

"My current factory can only produce 3.3 pieces per month, leaving a shortage of 1.2 pieces."

"The price for a finished product that meets the standards is $3.2 each."

Lin Ge picked up the part and turned it over to examine it.

This is a structural component, approximately ten centimeters long and five centimeters wide, with a stamped reinforcing rib along its edge.

There is a thin layer of anti-rust oil on the surface, and it feels slippery to the touch.

He scraped the edges of the reinforcing ribs with his fingernail; they were even, smooth, and without any burrs.

"Tolerance requirement: ±0.3 mm"

Danforth flicked his cigarette ash:

"General Motors has very strict quality control; if the defect rate exceeds 3%, the entire batch is returned!"