I bought a prison in the United States.

September 29th.

At six o'clock in the morning, Ringo was shaving in the bathroom of room number two at the Bluebird Motel.

The mercury coating on the mirror is severely aged, and the edges have begun to peel off, revealing the underlying glass.

The razor blades were replaced a month ago and are now a bit dull, causing a slight stinging sensation when shaving.

He turned the tap to the far left.

A low, trembling sound came from the water pipe, like a startled animal turning over deep inside the wall.

It took about ten seconds for the water to start getting hot.

The hot water system at the Bluebird Hotel is a mystery; Betty said the boiler was replaced in 1968.

But ever since then, it has been like a capricious old man, with plenty of hot water when it's happy and only cold water when it's unhappy.

No one knows the pattern of its happiness or unhappiness.

It has hot water today.

Lingo took this as a good omen.

After shaving, he splashed cold water on his face and then dried it with a towel.

The edges of the towel were frayed, and the middle part had been repeatedly rubbed and washed until it was as thin as a cicada's wing, through which you could almost see your own palm.

This is Betty's philosophy of thrift: towels and sheets are used until they are no longer usable, and they are not replaced according to a fixed schedule.

Unlike managers of chain hotels who would throw away towels while they were still perfectly usable because "guests expect perfect white."

Guests at the Bluebird Hotel did not have this expectation.

They just want cheap prices, clean sheets, and hot water available occasionally.

After washing up, Lin Ge put on a shirt.

Yesterday afternoon, he went to the tailor shop that Frank had mentioned.

The tailor was an Italian man in his sixties named Salvador, or Sal, depending on how long you'd known him.

Sal took Ringo's suit, hung it on the mannequin, stepped back, and squinted at it for a while.

He didn't use a ruler to measure; he just pinched his shoulders and waist a few times with his hands and then marked a few spots with a safety pin.

"Fifteen dollars, come pick it up tomorrow afternoon."

As he said this, his gaze had already shifted from his suit to the small television on the wall that was showing a baseball game.

Ringo wanted to tell him he needed the suit urgently, but Sal was no longer looking at him.

In Thrall's world, an old suit that needs alterations isn't something worth paying too much attention to.

He started altering clothes at this shop in 1958, and he said he even made custom suits for oil tycoons.

It was obvious he was bragging. Lingo saw through him in a second because he had "lying" written all over his head.

This morning, Ringo wore the suit that Sal had altered.

He stood in front of the mirror, scrutinizing the once overly prominent wrinkle on his shoulder.

Now it's gone.

The shoulder line of the suit now fits his shoulders, extending naturally to the sleeves.

The waistline no longer hangs loosely above the belt, but is slightly tapered, outlining a barely neat silhouette.

Thrall didn't make any complicated changes; he simply took back what needed to be taken back and put away what needed to be put away.

The value of fifteen dollars is fully reflected in an old suit.

This is a craftsman's understanding of his work.

Sal doesn't have the magic to turn the ordinary into the extraordinary; he can't alter a suit to make it look like a designer brand.

But he made this suit the best it could be.

Lin Ge tied his tie.

Betty wore her old deep red tie with gold diamond patterns, paired with a modified dark blue suit.

He finally no longer looks like a young man wearing his father's clothes, but rather like a small entrepreneur who, though not wealthy, has a strong spirit.

He walked out of the room.

In the hallway, Betty was changing a light bulb.

She stood on a rickety wooden ladder, a screwdriver between her teeth, and an old light bulb in her hand.

The new light bulb bulged out in the apron pocket, creating a round shape.

"You're dressed like a proper person today."

She said it without turning her head.

The screwdriver waving in her mouth made her voice muffled.

"Was it Thrall who modified it?"

"……right."

Ringo had learned not to ask Betty why she knew every small merchant in town.

How much did he charge you?

"fifteen."

"Too expensive."

"My ex-husband had his clothes altered for only twelve yuan back then."

She unscrewed the old light bulb and handed it to Lin Ge.

Lin Ge took it, and the filament inside the glass bulb made a faint tinkling sound before it broke.

He put the old light bulb on the ground and took a new light bulb out of Betty's apron pocket and handed it to her.

"In what year did your ex-husband go to Sal's place?"

Betty screwed the new light bulb in and clapped her hands.

The ladder creaked beneath her.

"1979, Carter's last year as president."

"How much did gasoline cost per gallon back then?"

"Eighty-something cents? I can't remember."

"It's ninety-five cents now, up more than ten percent. Sal raised the price by 20%, so considering inflation, he didn't actually make much more money off me."

Betty climbed down the ladder, took the screwdriver out of her mouth, and looked at him:

"You know what, dear Chen, what you just said was the most unromantic comfort I've ever heard in my life."

She walked to the front desk, folded the ladder, and leaned it against the corner of the wall.

"But you do look different today."

"Because I changed into a suit?"

It's because of your eyes.

"…What does it mean?"

"When you first moved in, your eyes seemed to say, 'I might die here,' but now..."

Betty didn't know how to describe it.

Lin Ge understood what the other party meant. Since his visit to the Chamber of Commerce, he had not only broadened his horizons but also found direction and opportunities.

At least the things in his pockets won't make him a homeless person on the street.

"Ms. Betty, if you want to compliment me on how handsome I've become, just say so. I like straightforward praise."

Lingo made a hook with his left hand under his chin.

"Hehe, dear Chen, why don't you go get a haircut first before accepting my compliment?"

Betty laughed and didn't continue the conversation.

She turned on the TV, and the morning news began.

The news anchor with her hair styled in a high bun is reporting in a saccharine voice about the overcrowding in Oklahoma's state prison system:

"The state corrections department is considering transferring some minor offenders to county jails to alleviate pressure on state jails."

Ringo's ears perked up.

The television screen switched to a shot of a spokesperson for the state corrections department standing behind a microphone.

He was a white man in his fifties, wearing a dark gray suit and a maroon tie.

He had a square face, a broad chin, and spoke in a manner that suggested he had spent most of his life in the government.

You know those kinds of people, who carefully choose every word, leaving no room for anyone to find fault with them:

"We are evaluating several solutions."

"This includes expanding existing facilities, increasing bed density, and establishing closer cooperative relationships with county-level correctional institutions."

"The ultimate goal is to ensure that Oklahoma's orthodontic system can safely, effectively, and humanely accommodate all those who need orthodontic treatment."