I bought a prison in the United States.

At 10:00 AM sharp, Ringo's pickup truck was parked in the parking lot of the Tulsa Metal Products Factory, driven by Powers.

The pickup truck's bed was loaded with ten wooden crates, secured firmly with ropes.

Craig sat in the passenger seat, wearing a clean orange prison uniform.

Lingo specifically asked the laundry room to find him a shirt without stains or damage.

There were no handcuffs on his wrists.

This was Ringo's decision.

Warden Harmon objected, but he persisted.

"What if he runs away?"

"I'll take Bowers with me, but I doubt he'll dare. Craig still has four years left on his sentence; if he runs away, he'll never get out."

"He's currently making stamped parts. As long as it brings stable revenue to the prison, I will submit his sentence reduction recommendation to the state corrections department in a few months."

Looking into Harmon's eyes, Ringo said with unwavering conviction:

"He himself had done the math; if he stayed put obediently, there was a good chance of a reduced sentence."

"If he runs away, he'll spend the rest of his life on the run. An engineer knows how to calculate costs."

Hamon thought it made sense and didn't say anything more.

What Ringo didn't say was that Craig was his only reliable technical backbone at the moment, and if he left, it would be like cutting off one of his sources of income.

He would keep an eye on the person and use his abilities to subtly change their mind, making them wholeheartedly work for the prison.

This calculation is what makes Lin Ge trust him.

At that moment, Craig stood next to the pickup truck, looking at Mr. Danforth's factory.

Gray smoke billowed from the chimney, and the roar of machinery emanated from the open workshop doors.

His expression was complicated; even now, he couldn't believe he had stepped out of the prison gates, even with a prison guard standing behind him.

Ringo saw an emotion label he had never seen before appear above his head: "dazed".

"What's wrong with you?"

"The last time I stood at the factory gate was six years ago, on the day I resigned, at Lockheed's Burbank factory."

Mr. Danforth came out of his office.

Today he was wearing a dark brown work jacket with faded red letters "TMW" embroidered on his left breast pocket.

His pace was a bit faster than it was at the business meeting yesterday, and his shoulders were no longer slouching forward.

The attitude of a person on their own turf is different from that of a person on someone else's turf.

"Has the goods arrived?"

"We've arrived. Ten boxes, a thousand pieces."

Lingo handed over a handwritten report:

"Sample Inspection Report"

The report was written by Craig in his cell last night using a typewriter borrowed from the prison office.

The font is the standard Courier, and each line is the same length and arranged neatly.

The report details the quantity, pass rate, reasons for rejection, and improvement measures for each batch.

The last page includes a hand-drawn diagram of stamped part dimensions, showing the measured values ​​of all critical dimensions.

Mr. Danforth took the report and opened it.

His gaze lingered on the first page for a dozen seconds before turning to the second, third, and finally the size inspection diagram on the last page.

His gaze slowly moved along the dimension lines on the hand-drawn drawing, his expression growing increasingly satisfied:

"good."

"I've been in this industry for thirty years, and I've never received such a detailed inspection report from an outsourcing company."

Mr. Danforth turned his gaze to Craig:

"Did you write this?"

Craig nodded.

"I heard from Chen that you used to work at Lockheed?"

"Lockheed, Burbank, in charge of designing the component drawings for the F-117."

Mr. Danforth's eyes widened slightly, a feeling of regret welling up inside him, coalescing into a silent sigh.

"F-117 stealth fighter? I've heard about it in the newspapers; the media says it's something out of science fiction."

Craig shook his head:

"In the eyes of engineers, science fiction is just a complex math problem."

"The shape design can deflect radar waves, preventing them from returning to the receiver."

"The principle is simple to explain, but difficult to implement. The tolerances for each curved surface are extremely high, more than ten times stricter than those for automotive parts."

When he said this, there was a kind of vitality in his voice that he hadn't felt in a long time.

Danforth nodded slightly and turned to Ringo:

"Chen, I'll take this batch of goods."

"One thousand qualified products will be sold at the contract price of $3.3 each, while defective products will be deducted based on the cost of materials."

"That's $2916 in total. I'll write you a check today."

He pulled a checkbook from the pocket of his work jacket, placed it on the hood of the pickup truck, and filled it out with a ballpoint pen.

But the number is not two thousand nine.

"Also, I've decided to give you the entire General Motors order, the one with 12,000 units per month."

"Starting next month, you can get the full service for $3.5 each, because if you get the full service, I'll save myself a step."

"The 10% deposit will also be included in the check, and I'll pay it to you first."

Ringo took the check and saw the number: $7116.

This is the first legitimate income for McLean County Correctional Center.

However, this money won't stay in his pocket for long.

One stamping machine is not enough to make 12,000 pieces; at least two are needed, along with a deburring roller and an anti-rust spraying machine.

Equipment, materials, and labor—every penny must be spent wisely.

"Can you handle this?"

"no problem."

Ringo folded the check and put it in his pocket.

Mr. Danforth nodded, refusing to utter any more empty words; trust was expressed through orders.

He entrusted Lin Ge with a monthly order of 12,000 pieces, which was the highest level of trust he could express.

"Your engineer..."

Mr. Danforth turned to Craig:

"What's your name?"

"Craig Miller."

Danforth's tone was appreciative:

"Mr. Miller, your test report is very professional."

"If you ever get out of there, no matter how you come to find me, there will always be a place for you here."

"Cough cough."

A few black lines appeared on Lin Ge's forehead.

What does it mean to "come out regardless of the method"?

This old guy is poaching people right under his nose.

Craig stood there, unsure how to respond.

His orange prison uniform stood out starkly against the pale sunlight, the wind blowing through his hair and causing the hem of his uniform to sway slightly.

"Thank you, Mr. Danforth."

Craig's voice sounded somewhat melancholy:

"I'll come when I get out."

Craig remained quiet on the way back to the prison.

He sat in the passenger seat, watching the corner shops with signs that read "Beer, Lottery, Grocery" flash by outside the window.

He hadn't seen these views for over a year.

The last time he walked the streets of Tulsa was on his way from the courthouse to prison.

At that time, he felt that he would never see these things again as a free man.

Today he wasn't handcuffed; he was just sitting normally in the passenger seat of an old pickup truck.

The car window was rolled down, and the wind was blowing on his face.