Chapter 27

Tian Qiaoguang was gone for a full half hour before returning, carrying not only two large lunch boxes but also a thick folder.

“There’s a staff roster at the security desk. I borrowed it for you—hurry up and take a look, I have to return it soon,” Tian Qiaoguang said as he entered.

“Officer Tian, can I eat first? I smell chicken!” An Xiaohai smiled as he spoke.

“Of course,” Tian Qiaoguang said, setting his things down on another table. “Let’s eat first. A little delay won’t matter.”

An Xiaohai stood up and sat across from Tian Qiaoguang, his attention fully on the lunch boxes, not even glancing at the staff roster. Tian Qiaoguang visibly relaxed.

The meal was plentiful, mostly meat, which was exactly what An Xiaohai needed.

An Xiaohai ate carefully, partly enjoying the hard-earned food and partly because he could only eat with his left hand.

During the meal, An Xiaohai casually chatted with Tian Qiaoguang, slowly getting to know him better.

Tian Qiaoguang’s life was simple: he was born into an ordinary Chaoshan family in the province, had an older brother, three sisters, and was the best at studying.

He majored in Chinese language and literature, and after graduation, he took the civil service exam and was assigned to Shenhai City’s First Prison as the reading room administrator.

Tian Qiaoguang had a deep love for literature and had read a wide variety of books, being a loyal fan of Sanmao.

An Xiaohai and Tian Qiaoguang talked about many of Sanmao’s works, from Crying Camel to Stories of the Sahara, from How Many Flowers Fall in the Dream to Across a Thousand Mountains and Rivers.

Tian Qiaoguang became more and more excited as they talked, almost forgetting himself. For him, this kind of joy was something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

But An Xiaohai’s heart grew colder the more they talked.

It was obvious that Tian Qiaoguang was an emotional and passionate person, but he had only been working in the cold prison for less than two years, and it seemed to have already changed him into a different person.

This prison trapped everyone inside it—both the inmates and the guards—separated only by a cold iron fence.

The meal lasted nearly an hour. Tian Qiaoguang was still a little reluctant to stop. When he saw An Xiaohai begin flipping through the staff roster, Tian Qiaoguang lowered his head, unsure of what he was thinking.

An Xiaohai flipped through quickly, and a smile gradually appeared at the corner of his mouth.

Perhaps to help the guards recognize and remember each staff member, the roster was quite detailed and even included photos of nearly every prison worker.

The two guards An Xiaohai had seen in the hallway were listed.

The middle-aged officer, Qiu Peng, 42 years old, was a regular officer in the First Ward, which the inmates referred to as Area A, though the correct name was the First Ward.

The officer in the security room, Chen Yongqiang, 37 years old, was not a full-time officer but an auxiliary officer without official status, mainly responsible for the security room duties.

Using terms from over a decade later, he was essentially a temporary worker tasked with taking the fall.

An Xiaohai also noted Yang Yuanbing and Liu Cong.

Yang Yuanbing’s position wasn’t small. Although his rank was only a deputy section chief, he held the position of Deputy Director of the First Prison, which was a higher rank than some area wardens, with considerable power. No wonder he was secretly involved in so many matters.

Liu Cong was just an ordinary officer, still in his probation period.

He had been working for over a year but was still on probation!

But An Xiaohai wasn’t surprised; many organizations were like that, keeping people on probation for as long as possible to have more leverage.

In leadership terms: “This young comrade still needs some more polishing!”

An Xiaohai finished scanning the entire roster in less than ten seconds per page—such was the advantage and wonder of his photographic memory.

An Xiaohai didn’t need to read every word; just scanning the page was enough for him to remember. He could then recall and retrieve the information later, just like looking at a photo.

Seeing An Xiaohai’s casual demeanor, Tian Qiaoguang secretly let out a sigh of relief.

What he had done was definitely against the rules. If discovered, it could lead to serious consequences, depending on An Xiaohai’s true intentions for looking at the roster.

But now, Tian Qiaoguang was completely at ease.

An Xiaohai had merely glanced at it. If he managed to discern something or remember the roster’s details, Tian Qiaoguang wouldn’t believe it himself.

It seemed that An Xiaohai was only interested in the programming need.

An Xiaohai quickly finished flipping through the roster and returned it to Tian Qiaoguang without hesitation.

“I understand. If I’m to design a work system, the essential information for each officer should be: name, officer number, and position. Also, the position and rank don’t always match up,” he said.

“Yes, it’s best to categorize by wards,” Tian Qiaoguang replied.

“Categorizing by ward isn’t difficult. I think I can design a report system to facilitate data entry.”

An Xiaohai paused, then added, “I was also thinking that if the management program can handle it, we can input key information to generate things like duty rosters, which could easily be printed out. This would save a lot of effort on administrative work.”

“That’s a good idea. Can it be done?”

“No problem. Look…”

An Xiaohai and Tian Qiaoguang continued discussing the prison management system. Tian Qiaoguang was cautious, not revealing any sensitive information, but that was enough for An Xiaohai.

For An Xiaohai, creating this management program was no challenge. It was essentially just a basic office automation system, albeit a very rudimentary one.

It would take him only about ten days to write it out if he kept working non-stop.

Of course, An Xiaohai wouldn’t do that.

He would take at least six months to a year to show his dedication. Given the time period, that would seem very reasonable, especially since he was working alone.

By the time they returned to the hospital room, it was nearly 11 p.m. Tian Qiaoguang personally escorted An Xiaohai back and even explained things to the doctor for a long time.

Tian Qiaoguang was a little excited. The more he talked to An Xiaohai, the more he realized how profound he was. It wasn’t just about creating a software system anymore.

An Xiaohai’s insights and suggestions often hit the nail on the head, making Tian Qiaoguang feel enlightened.

This time, it felt like he had struck gold!

An Xiaohai wasn’t pleased with himself, though. He knew this wasn’t because he was so brilliant—it was just fate’s arrangement. He simply had 30 more years of experience than Tian Qiaoguang and the people of this era.

“Qiu Peng, Chen Yongqiang, I’m almost ready. I hope you are too.”

As he looked at the moonlight outside the iron bars, An Xiaohai propped himself up and lay back on his bed, slowly closing his eyes.