I bought a prison in the United States.

Breakfast ended at 7:30.

The prisoners put their bowls and plates into the recycling window and left the canteen in batches under the guidance of the prison guards.

The factory group went to the factory, the kitchen group went to the kitchen, and the regular group went back to their cells or to the exercise yard.

The process of diverting students, like roll call, has been repeated countless times, becoming an almost instinctive order.

The members of "Ghost Fang" were the first to leave.

They entered through the side door closest to the kitchen, about thirty seconds earlier than the others.

This isn't an arrangement written in the manual, but it's always the same.

The most dangerous people should be removed first to reduce their contact time with other prisoners.

The second group of "Blue Snake" members left.

We entered through the main gate, along with most of the other prisoners.

The two groups briefly crossed paths at the entrance.

When "Blue Snake" passed by "Ghost Fang", it slowed its pace by half a beat.

His lips moved, as if he were saying something.

The voice was very low, and the people around couldn't hear it clearly.

But "Ghost Fang" heard it.

His expression remained unchanged, but the fingers of his right hand clenched slightly and then relaxed.

Then the two groups went their separate ways.

The dull, dragging sound of footsteps returned to the corridor.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the iron railings closed one by one behind them.

Some people were talking in hushed tones, some were coughing, and some were yawning.

Everything seems normal.

But Wade keenly sensed something amiss.

As "Blue Snake" walked past "Ghost Fang," the angle of its shoulder subtly shifted a few degrees, a sign that a collision was imminent.

He also noticed that two of the "three dogs" had their hands in their pockets as they passed each other.

There couldn't possibly be anything in their pockets.

Body searches are conducted twice daily, morning and evening, and cells are randomly checked weekly. Any contraband found is confiscated, and the holder is placed in solitary confinement.

This is a prison regulation.

But Wade knew that there would always be a gap between the rules and reality.

The crevice was stuffed with sharpened knives made from toothbrush handles, lock-picking tools made from mattress springs, and pornographic pictures drawn with toothpaste on rolled-up newspapers.

He worked in this position for eight years and witnessed the creativity of prisoners in hiding things, far exceeding the creativity of any engineer designing a product.

Even though he knew all this, he didn't say anything.

He knew that without solid evidence, a hasty body search would only alert the suspect.

If the "Ghost Fang" members actually have something in their pockets, they will dispose of it before it is discovered.

If not, then this body search will become a tool for "Ghost Fang" to show other prisoners that he has the power to say "even the prison guards can't do anything to me".

Wade didn't want to give him that chance.

But he would make a note on the board:

It is recommended to increase the frequency of spot checks on the third-floor cells in Block D.

The sentence was written in a plain style, and the handwriting was as neat as the roll call record.

Only he himself knew what those words meant.

This means that he will search through Ghost Fang's cell from top to bottom this afternoon while Ghost Fang is out exercising.

They searched under the mattress, inside the toilet tank, and through every crack in the wall big enough to fit a finger.

He'll find it if there's anything inside.

The time when Ringo was not in prison gave them some arbitrary power when dealing with prisoners, allowing them to do things that were not so legal but were in accordance with regulations.

Only with such a promise can the prison guards dare to go all out, even with the infamous "Ghost Fang," they have enough confidence.

Craig hurried into the factory; the stamping press was already preheated.

Randy arrived before him and was already applying lubricant to the joints.

His movements were much more skillful than a few days ago; the angle of the oil bottle and the wiping technique were both quite professional.

Craig stood by and watched for a while, becoming increasingly satisfied.

He discovered that Randy was more focused when learning practical skills than when doing anything else.

This focus wasn't something he consciously maintained; it came naturally, as if his brain automatically switched to a more efficient mode when faced with these kinds of problems.

Craig had seen people like this before.

He had a colleague like that when he was at Lockheed.

He didn't graduate high school and was terrible at math, but if you gave him an engine, he could intuitively tell where the problem was.

That man later became one of Lockheed's best mechanics, training more than a dozen apprentices.

But he never received the title of engineer in his entire life because he didn't have the diploma.

Randy is probably that kind of person too.

He might be a poor student at school, failing reading comprehension and not handing in his math homework.

But give him a wrench and something that needs fixing, and his hands will know what to do.

Craig thought that if he had met Randy outside, he would probably have been more willing to give him a chance.

Unfortunately, there are no "what ifs." They are now in prison, working for an entrepreneur who won't pay them.

"Today we're going to stamp the first batch of trial order samples."

Craig walked over to the stamping machine and patted the machine's casing.

"Mr. Danforth wants a thousand suspension brackets, with a tolerance of plus or minus 0.3 millimeters."

Do you know what 0.3 millimeters means?

Randy thought for a moment:

"Very thin?"

"As fine as a strand of your hair."

Craig pulled a hair out of his pocket; heaven knows why he would put hair in his pocket.

He placed the hair next to the die on the stamping machine and continued:

"If the part you make has a larger margin of error than this hair, then it's scrap."

"The requirement from above is that the scrap rate cannot exceed 3%."

"That means there can only be a maximum of thirty defective products out of a thousand."

Randy stared at the strand of hair and swallowed hard.

"Can I do it?"

"You can't do it now, but that's not your problem. The main issue is that the machine isn't working properly yet."

Craig was telling the truth.

"But you can gradually learn how to do it after you've broken through the first few dozen."

"I will include the cost of these scrap products in the training expenses."

"The boss will agree because he knows that a skilled worker is worth much more than a pile of junk."

He began to explain to Randy the working principle of the stamping machine.

How to install the mold, how to position the steel plate, how to press down the punch, and how to remove the finished product.

Every step was explained in great detail, so much so that Randy felt his brain could hardly contain it all.

But he still tried his best to take notes.

Because he knew that this was the first time in his life he had the opportunity to learn something truly useful.

It's not about stealing a TV or flipping a meat patty at a fast food restaurant.

This is a technique that will allow him to find a decent job after he leaves here.

He doesn't want to go back here.