I bought a prison in the United States.

When can your people begin?

Paul asked somewhat anxiously; it was clear he was in a real hurry.

"We can start this afternoon, right away."

Ringo patted Paul on the shoulder, indicating that he didn't need to be so nervous:

"My textile workers don't have much work to do during the day, so I can bring in a few people to do the cleaning and packaging."

Paul nodded.

His gaze passed over Ling Ge and landed at the factory entrance.

Through the open iron gate, you can see the stamping machines operating in the factory.

The sounds of machines and human breathing intertwined, creating a rhythm unique to this prison.

Lin Ge said with a smile:

"Are you curious about my factory? You can go in and take a look."

Paul thought for a moment, nodded, and followed Ringo into the factory.

The prisoners in the workshop looked up briefly when they saw Lingo bring in a stranger, then continued working.

No one stopped what they were doing, showing any tension or hostility, as if wondering, "Someone from outside is here, how should I behave?"

They were just doing their jobs.

In this prison, working means accumulating points, and points mean better treatment.

This logic has been repeatedly reinforced over the past few weeks, turning into a near-instinctive reaction.

Paul stopped beside the stamping machine.

He crouched down and picked up a freshly stamped part, a suspension bracket ordered by Mr. Danforth, its surface still slightly warm from the stamping process.

He turned the part over, touched the reinforcing ribs on the edge with his fingers, and examined it against the light for a while.

"How's the accuracy?"

"The pass rate for this batch is around 97%."

Before Ringo could speak, Craig, who was standing next to him, answered the question.

"Tolerances are controlled within ±0.25 mm."

Paul looked up and saw a prisoner wearing an orange prison uniform who spoke like an engineer.

"You did this? You're... the team leader?"

"...I'm in charge of quality control."

Craig pointed to Randy next to him.

"He's in charge of the operation."

Paul looked at Randy.

The boy, who was not yet twenty years old, was standing in front of the control panel of the stamping machine, holding the control levers with both hands.

His movements were fluid: placing the plate, positioning it, stamping it, taking it out, and stacking it.

The transitions between each movement are natural, without any unnecessary hesitation or interruption.

This doesn't look like a prisoner being forced to work; it looks like a skilled worker at work.

Paul put the parts back on the stack and stood up.

His face held an expression that Lingo had seen several times before.

The expression on the face of an outsider whose preconceived notions of what a prison factory might look like when they first see it in operation is slightly shaken.

This expression won't last long, but it will leave a few small cracks after shaking.

New ideas will seep in through these cracks.

Paul said:

My father once said, "No one is born stupid."

"People are put in a stupid position, and then they become stupid."

"If you put people in a position that requires them to use their brains, most people are actually capable of using their brains."

He looked at Lin Ge with some admiration and said:

"Your prison is probably the kind of place he described that requires you to use your brain."

Ringo led Paul to the textile area on the south side of the factory and pushed open a small door.

Behind the door was a storage room of about 20 square meters, which had been cleaned up. A clean plastic sheet was laid on the floor, and a long table and several plastic chairs were placed against the wall.

"This is a specially prepared cleaning and packaging area where your goods will be processed."

"I've brought in four people: two for cleaning and testing, and two for repackaging. We expect to finish within three days."

Paul looked at the storage room and then nodded.

He took a business card out of his work clothes pocket, wrote a string of numbers on the back, and handed it to Lingo.

"This is my home phone number. If there are any problems with this shipment, you can call me anytime."

In the 80s, writing your home phone number on a business card and handing it to someone signified a level of trust that went beyond a business relationship.

Because a home phone is a boundary of a person's private space, making this call is equivalent to entering the other person's private life.

This boundary will be completely blurred by social media more than forty years from now, but in 1984, it was still a social currency that needed to be treated with caution.

"I will."

Lin Ge put the business card in his pocket.

……

At 5 p.m., Paul's truck also left the prison.

At the same time, a black Lincoln Town Car pulled up outside the prison gates.

A middle-aged Chinese man got out of the car.

Frank Cao wore a dark gray suit and a dark red silk tie today, looking even more formal than he did at the Chamber of Commerce that day.

He stood outside the prison gates, looking up at the gray concrete building.

I never imagined that one day I would voluntarily come to the prison to discuss business.

"Mr. Frank, you've finally arrived."

Lin Ge personally greeted him at the door.

This was the first time he had worn a formal suit to receive guests since taking over the prison.

He ironed the suit in his room at the Bluebird Motel using the iron Betty had lent him.

In the United States in the 1980s, motel rooms were typically equipped with irons and ironing boards, a remnant of car culture.

In the United States, highways are like blood vessels, and motels are like nodes on those vessels.

Everyone who drives around the interstate for business needs to iron their suit before meeting clients the next day.

The iron was provided for them.

"Mr. Chen, your prison seems very quiet."

"Quiet is a good thing. In prison, quiet means everything is under control."

Frank nodded.

Instead of getting straight to the point, he first toured the factory with Ringo.

Frank's visit was not as casual as Paul's and Peterson's; he looked at all the details.

He squatted down next to the stamping machine, touched the edge of the die with his finger, and took a closer look.

Then he stood up, walked over to the deburring roller, picked up a part from the pile of finished products next to the roller, and stared at it for a long time.

"The burr removal was not thorough enough; there are still about 0.05 millimeters of residual burr on the edge."

"If this part is used in a valve, after hundreds of opening and closing cycles, residual burrs will fall off, enter the fluid, and then clog the valve core."

Craig, standing to the side, frowned slightly upon hearing this.

He took the part from Frank and examined it under the fluorescent light for a moment.

"I can adjust the rotation speed of the drum and the ratio of the grinding media."

"Replacing the current coarse sand medium with finer ceramic microspheres and extending the processing time by five minutes should reduce residual burrs to within 0.02 millimeters."