In 1990, I was imprisoned on a trumped-up corruption charge.
In the cell, the old prisoners made me kneel down and bark like a dog and snatched my food, but I endured it.
Until I found out that the person who framed me was the deputy director who I once called my brother-in-law.
That night, I used the sharp tool I sharpened from my toothbrush to make the entire prison remember my name.
Three years later, I stood at my parole hearing and smiled: "I want to be a good person."
Behind him, a dozen prisoners all stood up: "If Brother Lin doesn't leave, we won't leave either!
