I bought a prison in the United States.

After roll call, the prisoners walked towards the canteen under the guidance of the prison guards.

The corridor was only wide enough for two people to walk side by side, but more than sixty people formed a loose line, their footsteps dragging on the cement floor with a continuous rustling sound.

Some people yawned, some whispered to each other, and some silently stared at the back of the person in front of them.

Randy walked next to Craig.

He discovered that Craig hadn't brought the engineering manual with him today.

"Mr. Craig, not reading today?"

Craig shook his head:

"We have a new task today: machine debugging, which requires concentration."

As he spoke, his gaze was fixed straight ahead, but his peripheral vision was scanning everyone on both sides of the corridor.

This was a habit he developed in prison: always know who's around you, what they're doing, and how far away they are.

At Lockheed, he only needed to focus on the dimensions on the blueprints.

But here, he needs to pay attention to everything within a 360-degree range.

If a prisoner's expression is off, or if an extra guard appears in a corner, you have to be extra vigilant.

Some of this information is useful, and some is not, but you must collect it all, because you never know which piece of information will become crucial in the next second.

For example, he noticed that "Ghost Fang" was in the team today.

The gangster walked in the middle of the group, surrounded by three henchmen in a triangle.

One led the way, while two guarded the sides and rear.

This formation was not formed by chance.

In prison, no formation is accidental.

The people in front are responsible for observation and clearing obstacles, while those on the sides and rear are responsible for preventing threats from the sides and rear.

"Ghost Fang" walked in the middle, his hands in the pockets of his orange prison uniform, his gait lazy and unhurried.

His gaze met Craig's for a fleeting moment.

There was no emotion in his eyes.

But Craig knew that this lack of emotion was the most dangerous thing.

A person who is prone to anger, impulsiveness, and swayed by emotions is predictable.

"Ghost Fang" is not that kind of person.

He does nothing out of anger, but because that thing needs to be done.

The queue in the canteen was arranged in three lines, passing in front of Mrs. Martha's window one after another.

Today's breakfast is oatmeal, two slices of bread, and a cup of instant coffee.

A standard prison breakfast: enough calories, barely adequate nutrition, not very tasty, and today there's a missing piece of butter.

Mrs. Martha stood behind the window, using a long-handled spoon to scoop oatmeal into each of the bowls that were offered to her.

Her movements were mechanical, and the amount of each spoonful was almost exactly the same.

This is a skill she has honed over three years: to ensure that each portion of food is just enough, neither too much nor too little, within a fixed budget.

Randy held out the bowl, and Mrs. Martha looked up at him.

"Remember to come help in the kitchen today."

"Yes, Mrs. Martha, we'll go after breakfast."

"Wash the dishes clean, and scrub the pot too."

Mrs. Martha's tone was as usual, without any extra emotion.

But the spoonful of oatmeal she scooped for Randy was a little fuller than the others'.

The boundaries of many things in prison are blurred, between the prescribed treatment and the actual treatment, between the prescribed rules and the actual rules.

He carried his bowl and followed Craig to the table by the window.

Shortly after they sat down, old Foster also came over with a tray.

The old prisoner walked very slowly.

His left leg had been injured before he went to prison, and a piece of shrapnel from the Vietnam War was still lodged in his knee.

The shrapnel would ache slightly when the weather changed, making his gait even more stiff.

Because he never said how the shrapnel got there, several versions of the story circulated among the prisoners.

Some say he stepped on a landmine in the jungle, some say he was hit by a stray bullet on a helicopter, and others say it wasn't shrapnel at all, but an old injury he sustained while working in the oil field when he was younger.

Foster neither confirms nor denies any version of events.

In prison, a hazy past is more valuable than a clear resume.

When you don't know a person's background, you'll subconsciously give them more leeway.

He placed the tray opposite Craig and Randy and slowly sat down.

A little oatmeal spilled from the tray as he walked, and he scraped it back into the bowl with his fingers.

He did the movement so naturally, as if he had done it ten thousand times.

"Your legs hurt again?"

Craig asked.

He had no prior dealings with this old prisoner, and simply considered him one of the few prisoners who posed no threat.

It was Lin Ge who told him to take care of some of his fellow inmates when he had time.

This strange request didn't do him any good, but it did help the prison, and Lingo was willing to give him another credit.

He didn't care; it was just a casual chat anyway.

"The world is about to change."

As Foster spoke, he tore off a small piece of bread, dipped it into the oatmeal, and waited for it to soften before putting it in his mouth.

He had lost several teeth, and the remaining ones were badly worn. The prison dentist only extracted teeth, not replaced them.

Therefore, his way of eating is different from most people's. He first soaks hard things in porridge or coffee to soften them, and then slowly grinds them with his gums.

"You mean your legs hurt because it's going to rain?"

Randy asked curiously.

"It's going to get colder; it's late September, and a cold front is coming."

Foster took a sip of coffee.

"My leg is more accurate than the weather forecast on TV. They say it's sunny, but it might not be. If my leg hurts, the weather will definitely change."

Randy didn't know whether he should believe it or not.

He heard all sorts of predictions from the old people in the foster family, most of which were eventually proven to be nonsense.

But Foster's tone when he said this didn't sound like he was showing off any special ability; it sounded more like he was stating a fact he had accepted for many years.

"How long have you been inside?"

Randy asked cautiously.

He had only been here for a few months, and his cell was far from Foster's, so they rarely interacted.

"I don't remember very clearly."

Foster chewed on the soggy bread.

"The new warden told me it's nineteen years, or maybe twenty."

"When I first came here, Reagan hadn't become governor yet, and now he's almost finished his first term as president."

Randy remembers that Reagan became governor of California in 1967, and nineteen years ago was in 1965, before he was even born.

His parents were probably not even born yet at that time; his mother was only sixteen when she gave birth to him.

"Why...?"

Randy was halfway through his sentence when he suddenly realized that the question might not be appropriate.

In prison, it is very common to ask an inmate "What did you do wrong?"; it can even be considered a form of social etiquette.

But asking this question to someone who has lived here for almost twenty years feels different.

It didn't sound like they were inquiring about a crime; it sounded more like they were digging a grave.