I bought a prison in the United States.

The next day, when Lingo woke up in his office recliner, his neck was stiff as if someone had twisted it with a wrench.

The fluorescent lights went out sometime ago, and the sky outside the window took on an ambiguous hue, somewhere between gray and blue.

He glanced at the clock on the wall; it was 6:40.

In September in Oklahoma, it gets light earlier than in coastal areas. The morning light streamed through the dirty window and fell on the table.

He moved his neck, and his joints made a few soft cracking sounds.

He slept on a recliner all night, his body protesting, but compared to the sagging mattress in the motel, this place at least gave him a sense of security, like being on-site.

Harmon said yesterday that the prison guards needed to see him, but he was only half right.

It's not just the prison guards; the prisoners also need to see that this new boss isn't hiding in some comfortable office, oblivious to everything.

Lin Ge stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the world outside the barbed wire fence.

The morning mist drifted in from the distant pastures, enveloping the wasteland surrounding the prison in a gray-white sea.

A few lonely elm trees stood in the mist, their branches like the outstretched arms of a drowning person.

A pickup truck drove by on the highway in the distance, its headlights casting two blurry beams of light through the fog.

This was the scene everywhere in the American heartland in 1984.

A dilapidated town, abandoned farms, and rusty farm machinery lying unattended on the edge of the fields.

Lin Ge knew that Reaganomics was creating wealth miracles in New York and Los Angeles at that moment.

But in this forgotten land, people still use old pickup trucks from the 1970s, listen to country music from the 1960s, and wait for a better day that will never come.

Lin Ge withdrew his gaze, walked to the filing cabinet, and took out a small mirror from the bottom drawer.

He brought this back from the county government the day before yesterday. He originally intended to hang it on the office wall, but he couldn't find a nail.

He leaned the mirror against the filing cabinet and looked at his face in the mirror.

The face of a 26 or 27-year-old Chinese man has higher cheekbones and a more defined jawline than his previous life.

There are obvious bluish marks under the eyes, which are clearly the result of staying up late for several nights in a row.

He had stubble on his chin, and when he touched it with his finger, it felt as rough as sandpaper.

He looked at himself in the mirror and murmured:

"He should look pretty handsome if he grooms himself, but he's not imposing enough. Should I grow a beard...? Never mind, I won't."

He picked up a pencil from the table and wrote in the blank space on the calendar:

Hobbes—See him or get out!

A lawyer—must be found today!

The reform plan has been put on paper!

Ghost Fang—keep a close eye on him!

After writing this, he threw the pencil back on the table, walked out of the office, and headed towards the restroom.

The corridor was empty except for the echo of his footsteps.

As he passed through the prison area, he glanced inside as usual.

Behind the iron bars, the prisoners were still asleep, their snores and murmurs creating a low background noise.

"Whoosh!"

He washed his face with cold water in the bathroom.

The water from the tap had a rusty taste and was icy cold, instantly clearing his mind.

Without a razor, he could only use his hands, dampened with water, to press down the sticking-out hair.

Look, doesn't Lingo in the mirror look like a recently laid-off assistant at some third-rate law firm, tired but not desperate?

He recalled the time after his first failed business venture in his previous life, when he lived in a partitioned room in Shenzhen with a monthly rent of 800 yuan.

Back then, he would wash his face with cold water every morning, put on a discounted shirt he bought from Uniqlo, and squeeze onto the subway to meet investors.

He was 28 years old at the time and felt that he was still young and had countless opportunities to succeed.

He's 26 now, and he hasn't succeeded yet, but he's getting younger.

The difference is that back then, if you failed, you could simply go back to your hometown and take the civil service exam.

Now that he's failed, Ray Carson will definitely take everything of value from him.

At seven o'clock sharp, Lin Ge walked into the canteen. He had no money in his pocket and could only eat the prisoner's welfare meal.

Mrs. Martha was already busy at the stove.

She looked more energetic today than a few days ago; her hair was tied in a neat ponytail, and she had changed into a clean apron.

Randy squatted in the corner peeling potatoes, his movements clumsy, the peels uneven in thickness, and in some places he peeled too deep, cutting off a large chunk of potato flesh as well.

Mrs. Martha clearly noticed, but she didn't yell at anyone, after all, it wasn't her who was eating the food.

"Good morning."

Lin Ge greeted him.

Mrs. Martha didn't turn her head, but her voice was softer than yesterday:

"Aren't you eating out today?"

"I'm out of money."

Do you know why leaders always pretend to be strapped for cash in front of their subordinates? It's because this effectively prevents them from asking you for favors.

However, Lingo was genuinely poor; he wasn't faking it.

Mrs. Martha picked up an enamel mug from the stove, poured him a cup of coffee, and handed it to him.

Lin Ge took it and drank a sip. My God, it tastes a hundred times better than Betty's!

Although it's still instant, at least the sugar and milk ratio is correct.

"How's Randy doing?" Ringo asked.

Mrs. Martha glanced back at the thief in the corner and said in a low voice:

"He's clumsy, but he's obedient enough. If you tell him to go east, he won't go west. He's much easier to manage than those self-proclaimed smart people."

"That's good. Have him go to the factory to help out after breakfast today. Craig still needs more manpower."

Mrs. Martha nodded and continued stirring the oatmeal in the pot.

Lin Ge leaned against the stove, drinking coffee while observing the situation in the canteen.

Yesterday he had some wooden shims placed under the legs of several wobbly tables, and they look much more stable today.

There seemed to be fewer cockroaches in the corner. I wondered if it was because Mrs. Martha had cleaned up, or if they had just temporarily hidden away.

At 7:15, the prisoners were brought to the canteen one after another.

Lin Ge stood at the entrance of the cafeteria, observing everyone just as he had the day before.

Observation is a habit he developed over two lifetimes.

In his past life, when he was in the cross-border e-commerce business, he could tell whether a batch of goods could be delivered on time just by listening to the tone of the supplier's voice.

When doing community group buying, he can also judge which area is about to have a problem by the frequency of the group leader's WeChat messages.

Prisons and those businesses are essentially no different; they both involve dealing with people.

The only difference is that the people here are in more danger.

The "mayor" was still sitting alone at the table in the far corner.

He ate breakfast the same way he did yesterday, chewing each bite thoroughly before swallowing.

Lin Ge noticed that when his gaze swept across the canteen, it lingered a little longer on a certain prisoner.

The inmate's name is Otis Green, a young black man sentenced to twelve years for armed robbery. He had just gotten into an argument with another inmate yesterday over a magazine.

Lin Ge noted this detail down.

The fact that the "mayor" is paying attention to Otis suggests that Otis may be a potential troublemaker.