I bought a prison in the United States.

Carlos decided to stop talking.

He squatted down, dug a weed out of a crack in the cement floor with his fingers, and chewed the stem.

He felt that his boss was worrying unnecessarily. Ghost Fang was one thing, but the new warden was just a skinny monkey. What was there to be afraid of?

At the other end of the exercise yard, Jerome stood alone beside the barbed wire fence, his hands gripping the mesh, his face almost pressed against the wire.

His gaze pierced through the diamond-shaped holes, looking out at the world outside the prison.

Outside was a two-lane county road, the asphalt on the surface glistening in the sun.

Across the road was a wasteland overgrown with knee-high weeds. Half-hidden in the weeds was a rusty mattress, left there by someone and for some unknown reason.

The mattress springs bulged out of the fabric like the ribs of a corpse.

Further away, there was a gas station.

A man in overalls is refueling a car, his movements slow and mechanical, like a robot that has repeated this action ten thousand times.

Jerome looked at the man who was cheering him on.

He wondered what the man had for breakfast this morning.

Did his wife cook oatmeal for him?

Did he look back at his home when he left?

No one paid any attention to the addict's desire to get out. Behind Jerome, the prisoners in the exercise yard continued to while away their days.

Everyone either tells jokes or argues about the outcome of a boxing match, while those who aren't doing anything sit quietly to the side, waiting for their break time to end.

Tommy stood at the entrance to the exercise yard, his gaze slowly moving among the prisoners, as if he were counting heads.

His gaze lingered on Jerome's back for about two seconds longer than the others.

Then he looked away and continued his inspection.

In prison, pretending not to see is the kindest option.

……

Four o'clock in the afternoon, in the restricted area.

Wade stood at the door of cell number three and opened the cover of the observation window.

Guiya sat on the floor in the corner, leaning against the wall with his legs stretched out, his hands on his knees, and his eyes closed, as if he were asleep.

There was a plate in the corner, the food inside was almost untouched, only the water in the plastic cup was half gone.

Wade's gaze lingered on the plate for a moment; the bread was torn into pieces but not eaten, which wasn't a sign of picky eating.

Tearing bread is an action that requires a finger to do something, an action that requires keeping the hand busy while thinking or waiting.

Rivera.

"Officer Wade."

Ghost Fang opened one eye and stared at the observation window.

"Stand up and walk around twice," Wade ordered.

Ghost Fang snorted and stood up to do as he was told, but there was nothing on the floor.

"I'm behaving myself, Officer Wade, can't you tell?"

Ghost Fang's lips curled up slightly, and the smile looked particularly glaring.

Wade did not respond to the provocation. His gaze slowly swept across the detention room, and everything seemed normal.

This place is so small that you can only walk around in circles. Even if you wanted to use leverage, there wasn't enough distance to break the door open from the inside.

He closed the cover of the observation window and wrote a line on the patrol log:

[16:00, Solitary Confinement Cell No. 3: The inmate is calm and shows no abnormalities.]

After finishing writing, he continued walking to check the next solitary confinement cell.

"idiot."

Behind him, in solitary confinement cell number three, Ghost Fang sneered and looked down at his right hand.

A thin metal strip, about ten centimeters long and two millimeters wide, was held between his fingers, with its edges ground very thin.

This was pried off the edge of the plate. The plastic plate has a metal strip around the edge for reinforcement, which can be pried off with a blunt knife or strong enough fingers.

He held the metal sheet up to the light and squinted at its edge.

Insert the metal plate into the door gap, press it against the latch, and pry it upwards three to four millimeters, and the latch will retract into the lock body.

What's needed is the angle and the force. He's already calculated the angle, but he needs to practice the force in the dark.

After failing three times, he hid the metal piece back in the interlayer between the sole and the insole, then closed his eyes and continued meditating.

This is a job that requires patience, and he happens to have that patience now.

Outside the confinement room, the second hand of the clock at the end of the corridor ticked away, making a soft clicking sound.

Every sixty clicks, the minute hand moves once.

The minute hand jumps sixty times, and the hour hand moves one division.

Every twenty-four ticks of the clock's movement marks the start of a new day.

7 p.m., dinner time.

The canteen was filled with the aroma of boiled beans and cornbread.

The taste is the same as yesterday, the same as the day before yesterday, and exactly the same as the day before that.

At McLean County Correctional Center, the menu is a function that loops infinitely every seven days.

Monday is beans and bread, Tuesday is macaroni and meat sauce, and Wednesday is stew and rice.

Thursday is fried chicken nuggets and mashed potatoes, Friday is fish fillets and tortillas, Saturday is burgers and fries, and Sunday is a "surprise mixed bag".

The so-called surprise stew is when Mrs. Martha chops up all the leftover ingredients from the week and cooks them into one pot.

The taste varies slightly each time, but the underlying logic remains the same: don't waste anything edible!

The beans were overcooked today and were a bit too soft than usual. When I scooped them up with a spoon, they clumped together in the spoon.

Mrs. Martha was probably in a bad mood today; overcooked beans usually meant she was distracted at the stove.

The reason she was distracted might be that she had an argument with the supplier while shopping in the morning, or it could be that her youngest child had a fever last night and she didn't sleep well.

The prisoners wouldn't have cared about these things until they discovered that the quality of their food depended on the mood of the other person, and then they realized something was seriously wrong.

Two of the "Three Dogs," Knife and another young Latino nicknamed "Fatty," sat at a table against the wall.

Their plates were piled higher with cornbread than the others.

This wasn't because they were lucky, but because the prisoners in charge of distributing the bread today were their own men.

In prison, the distribution of food is also a basic demonstration of power.

Who gets an extra piece of bread, who gets an extra spoonful of meat in the soup—these are all reflections of power networks.

Xiao Dao broke a piece of cornbread in half, put one half in his mouth, and put the other half back on the plate.

He was somewhat uneasy because his two companions had said some unpleasant things to him, and he wasn't mentally prepared for it.

Blue Snake sat in his usual spot, surrounded by his four henchmen.

The fact that their plates contained less cornbread than the standard portion was a warning sign.