I bought a prison in the United States.

Randy wiped the grease off his hands and looked at the dozens of shiny little metal pieces, a strange feeling welling up inside him.

This was the first time in his life that he had made something useful with his own hands.

He wiped his hands clean and followed Craig out of the factory.

In the corridor, prisoners finishing their work formed a loose line and walked towards the cell block.

The fluorescent tubes hummed overhead, casting long shadows on the ground.

Randy saw Foster in the group.

The old prisoner walked at the back of the line, his steps slow and stiff.

He sat in the factory all day today, sorting through a whole box of screws and washers.

Randy slowed his pace and walked over to Foster.

"Does your leg still hurt today?"

Foster turned his head and glanced at him.

"It still hurts, and it will hurt even more tomorrow."

"Because the weather is about to change?"

Foster nodded.

"Leng Feng will arrive tomorrow night. I heard it on the radio."

The prison radio was placed in the canteen and was turned on for an hour each morning and evening.

The prisoners can listen to the news and music, but they cannot change the channel.

The radio station is fixed, a local country music station in Tulsa, with occasional weather forecasts and agricultural product prices.

Randy thought for a moment, then asked:

"Did the radio say it would snow?"

"What snow in September?"

There was a rare hint of amusement in Foster's voice.

"However, the weather in Oklahoma is unpredictable."

"I remember one year it snowed in October. I was inside here, watching the snow fall on the barbed wire outside the window."

Randy imagined that scene.

Gray sky, white snow, rusty barbed wire.

A man who had been inside for nearly twenty years stood behind the window, watching the snow fall.

He didn't know what that feeling was like.

But he felt that if he ever left, he would probably remember some things about this place.

The procession continued forward, through the corridors, past the closing iron bars, and into the cell block.

Randy stopped in front of his cell, turned around, and faced the iron bars.

The iron fence slid up behind him, making a familiar metallic clanging sound.

The day in prison is over.

Tomorrow there will be new ringtones, new oatmeal, and new stamped parts.

But before that, there are still eight hours of night ahead.

Randy lay on his bunk, staring at the bed board above him.

The wood grain of the bed frame, under the dim light, resembled a map of a new continent.

His fingers were still slightly numb, a lingering sensation from operating the press all day.

The pain, tingling, and numbness, along with the hard wooden planks under the bed, reminded him that he was still in prison.

Even with my eyes closed, I still think about the outside world.

Outside the window, the wind blew in from the northwest, carrying the smell of dust and withered grass from the Oklahoma wilderness, blowing over the barbed wire and past the dust-covered Ford pickup truck in the parking lot.

……

On the morning of September 28th, the cold front finally passed, and the sky over Tulsa returned to its azure blue.

Lingo stood in front of the mirror in room number two of the Bluebird Motel, scrutinizing himself.

The dark blue old suit still looks convincing under the fluorescent lights of the Goodwill secondhand store.

But in the September morning light of Oklahoma, those stubborn wrinkles that have been repeatedly pressed by the dry cleaners' irons are as clearly visible as contour lines on a map.

The tie was lent to him by Betty; it was dark red with gold diamond patterns printed on it.

Lin Ge could tell at a glance that this was a style that was popular ten years ago, and now it looked more like a gift given to customers by a bank that had gone bankrupt.

However, he is unable to purchase better equipment yet. The prison has been operating smoothly for a week, but it has not yet turned a profit, and the county government's subsidies have not yet arrived.

But he was still in a great mood today because a thousand stamped parts would be delivered to Danforth tomorrow.

After deducting the cost of raw materials and transportation provided by the other party, the net profit is at least around $15,000.

The prisoners' wages are directly credited to their internal prison points, so Ringo doesn't even need to pay Craig and the others any actual wages.

He tied his tie and smoothed the collar of his shirt with his fingers.

I hand-washed the shirt yesterday and left it in the bathroom overnight; it's still a little damp.

In the humidity of Tulsa in September, clothes never seem to dry completely.

The air in this city always carries a faint dampness, coming from the Arkansas River and the cooling towers of the oil refineries that run day and night.

He picked up a comb and combed his hair back, making his face in the mirror look much older than his actual age.

He's not even 30 years old yet, and he doesn't have many wrinkles on his face.

But there was too much calculation and too little sleep in those eyes, because Ringo was a man who was always keeping accounts.

Someone in his past life told him that aging doesn't begin with the skin, but with the eyes.

When you start viewing everyone you meet through the lens of gains and losses, your eyes will lose a certain color.

That color is called innocence, but you can see it in the eyes of children, in the eyes of couples in love, and in the eyes of those who haven't yet been repeatedly shaped by life.

Ringo has lost that color.

Three bankruptcies, one time travel, one prison.

All these things combined are enough to polish anyone's eyes into a mirror that only reflects, but does not shine.

He put down the comb and picked up the invitation on the table.

Tulsa Chamber of Commerce Annual Meeting: [Mayo Hotel]

"The cocktail party starts at 2 p.m., the dinner party at 5 p.m., and the banquet at 7 p.m.

The invitation was sent by Mr. Danforth three days ago. The handwriting on the note was so messy it looked like a doctor's prescription, but Ringo could feel the rough goodwill in it.

Mr. Danforth is not the kind of person who is good at sweet talk.

An old man who had worked in manufacturing for thirty years, only to have half of his factory's machinery taken away by creditors, had long lost the ability to speak eloquently.

His good intentions are shown through his actions; he gives you an invitation, but whether it works out is up to you.

People in the American Midwest are mostly like that.

They don't wrap their promises in elegant words like East Coast businessmen.

They also won't use the slogan of "changing the world" to mask their greed like West Coast venture capitalists do.

They are straightforward in their speech and direct in their actions; they will do what they promise and will not promise what they cannot do.

This style isn't because they're more morally upright, but because in small towns, credit is the only thing a person can't earn back.

In New York or Los Angeles, you can fool one person and then fool the next.

In Tulsa, if you lie to one person, the whole city will know, and then you'll have to pack your things and move to another place where nobody knows you.

This is actually a form of capitalism, freed from the constraints of contracts and based solely on a credit network of reputation.

It is inefficient and expands slowly, but it is more resilient in the face of storms than business relationships built on complex legal terms.