I bought a prison in the United States.

"Ghost Fang" changed his table today.

He sat against the wall, with his back to the wall and facing the entire cafeteria.

The tactical significance of this position is obvious: no one can approach him from behind.

His three henchmen sat around him, forming a semi-circular protective circle.

They spoke in hushed tones, each of them casting a hostile glance, especially when looking at Ringo.

They're watching him too!

Lin Ge's gaze briefly met that of "Ghost Fang".

In that instant, he saw the keyword above the other person's head: "cold-blooded"!

Ghost Fang's lips curled up slightly, revealing a smile that could almost be described as friendly.

But his eyes weren't smiling.

There was only one thing in those eyes, like a venomous snake watching a passing frog from the grass.

A cruel patience...

Lin Ge looked away and continued to observe the others.

Craig sat by the window, an engineering manual open in front of him, eating bread and flipping through the pages.

Randy sat next to him, holding a piece of bread but not eating it, listening intently to what Craig was saying.

Judging from the gestures, Craig was explaining a principle of the stamping machine to him.

Old prisoner Foster actually came to the canteen.

This was the first time Lingo had seen him in the canteen since he took over the prison.

He carried a tray, slowly walked to the corner, sat down two tables away from the "mayor," and began to eat his porridge.

His movements were slow, even quieter than the "mayor's".

But his eyes were no longer as unfocused as yesterday; he seemed to have finally regained a sliver of clarity about life.

Lin Ge mentally added one point to his score.

As for the drug addict Jerome, he still hasn't shown up.

Ringo then asked Tommy, and the answer he received was:

"He had another attack last night, and it didn't calm down until 3 a.m. I gave him two sleeping pills, and he's sleeping now."

"Do you need to take him to the hospital?"

Lin Ge asked, frowning.

Tommy pushed up his glasses, his expression complex:

"Sending him there was no use. The hospital gave him a sedative injection, prescribed some methadone, and then sent him back. It only treated the symptoms, not the root cause."

"How can that address the root cause?"

Tommy's expression turned somewhat strange after hearing this, and he hesitated for a moment before saying:

"Unless you find a proper doctor, they won't prescribe anything other than sedatives and painkillers, but prisoners don't have health insurance."

"In addition to physical treatment, these people also need a goal to live for, otherwise they might commit suicide one day."

Looking at Tommy, Lin Ge noticed something beyond the professional boundaries in the way the tall, thin prison guard spoke.

He may not sympathize with the prisoners, but he's not exactly indifferent either; it's just a judgment based on experience.

Prisoners don't have medical insurance, so if they want to see a doctor, their families outside the prison have to pay for it, which is an astronomical sum.

If his family could cure him, how could he have ended up in prison?

Ringo guessed that Tommy might have seen someone similar in his own life, a ruined person.

"When he wakes up, tell him to come find me."

Tommy paused for a moment, then asked, "Are you sure?"

Lin Ge revealed a mysterious smile:

"As I said, I'm good at discovering the value in everyone."

After breakfast, the prisoners were taken to the workshop to repeat their work for the rest of the day.

Craig, along with Randy and three other prisoners Ringo had never seen before, gathered around the stamping machine and began training them.

Craig's voice came from the other end of the factory, steady and professional, as if he were lecturing at a university.

Lin Ge stood at the factory entrance for a while, and seeing that everything was in good order, he was satisfied and prepared to return to his office.

Hamon stopped him in the hallway.

"Hobbes is here."

The acting warden looked as if he had just eaten a sour lemon:

"He was in the locker room and didn't look well."

What does "not very good" mean?

"See for yourself."

As Lin Ge pushed open the locker room door, a strong smell of alcohol hit him.

Hobbes sat on the bench, leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees and his hands behind his head.

His hair was a mess, his stubble hadn't been shaved for at least a week, and his eyes were red and swollen like two cherries.

Harmon said he was thirty-five, but at that moment he looked like a disheveled sixty-year-old homeless man.

The "dejection" on his head was even darker than that on old Foster's head yesterday, making him look like he was about to become depressed.

"Your name is Hobbs, right?" Ringo asked.

Hobbes finally raised his head and looked at Ringo with his bloodshot eyes:

"Hello boss, my name is Hobbs, Bill Hobbs."

He said this as if he were confessing to a judge in court:

"I didn't come to work yesterday, I didn't come last week, and the week before that..."

"I know."

"I drank too much."

"I can tell."

Hobbes lowered his head and stared at his boots.

The boots were covered in mud, and the soles were worn unevenly, looking as tired as their owner.

"Harmon said I should come see you, and that you might be willing to give me another chance."

Hobbes' voice was low, as if he were talking to himself:

"But I'm not sure if I can continue doing this, sorry."

Lin Ge leaned against the wall with his arms crossed.

He looked at this man, who was broken by alcohol and something deeper, and thought of all the people he had seen who were crushed by life.

Suppliers are devastated by unpaid bills, employees are depressed due to performance pressure, and partners turn against each other due to differing philosophies.

Everyone has their own abyss; some have already fallen in, while others are still walking on the edge of the cliff.

Lingo spoke to him in as calm a voice as possible:

"Mr. Hobbes, I don't want to say things like, 'Alcoholism is a disease, you need help.'"

"You've been in this industry for so many years, you must have heard these kinds of things before."

"If those words had worked, you wouldn't be in this situation today."

Hobbes' shoulders trembled slightly.

"So I'll only ask you one question."

Lingo said:

"Do you want to continue doing this job, or not?"

Hobbes looked up, something struggling in his eyes.

After a long silence, he finally spoke:

"I need this job."

"That's not the answer I'm looking for. What I need is whether you want to, not whether you need to."

Hobbes stared at him, his gaze a mixture of confusion, anger, and a near-desperate plea.

His lips moved, but no sound came out.

Then he took a deep breath, as if he had been holding it in for a long time and finally surfaced.

"I have no idea."

His voice was even hoarser than before:

"I really don't know."

"I used to like this job."

"A long time ago, I thought it was a great job, but later..."

His voice grew softer and softer until it disappeared from his throat.