As the Cornelian Cherry Festival drew to a close, Atlanta's spring revelry for the year 2003 came to a formal end.

In a neighborhood of the outer satellite city of Marietta, Martin Davis limped into the living room, his injured knee protesting in pain.

He had just arrived in North America a week ago and was still adjusting.

On the bare wooden walls of the living room, two yellowing posters were affixed.

One was the cover of a particular edition of Gone with the Wind.

The other depicted the T-1000 from Terminator 2.

Martin sank into a cloth sofa, the swirling dust tickling his nose, a sneeze on the verge of erupting, only to be thwarted by a hard object jabbing his backside.

The rusty, broken springs poked through the discolored foam and non-woven fabric.

Martin grumbled and shifted to the other side, where the damaged cushion had collapsed into a pit, as soft as a large balloon, enveloping his key areas.

A pang of heartache suddenly struck him.

Not only for the balloon but for the challenging road he had endured to reach this point.

Martin had toiled in the city for years, honing his acting skills, acquiring relevant abilities, and even working as a stunt double for a few years. Finally, through relentless effort, he managed to secure minor roles.

At the dawn of the new year, Martin had secured a supporting role with significant screen time in a production.

If the television show aired smoothly, and after another five or six years of perseverance, he might earn a reputation as a seasoned actor.

Martin, who enjoyed his drinks, had celebrated wildly, consuming several self-mixed cocktails, and fell into a deep sleep surrounded by two oversized balloons, possibly causing a tragic breathing difficulty.

Upon waking, he found himself in Georgia, 2003.

The former Martin Davis was in dire straits, having recently worked as a house repairman, and had fallen from a roof a week prior, injuring his leg and head.

Martin had taken over the life of the 22-year-old Martin Davis, but the previous owner's memories in America were like a program needing decoding, operating at a sluggish pace.

This past week, Martin had mostly spent time familiarizing himself with the language, gradually achieving normal communication.

At this moment, the door opened from the outside, and Elena Carter, with her brown hair tied in a ponytail, entered with a key, followed by her brother Harris Carter, who carried a paper bag.

Elena, with her refined features and tall stature, and no freckles typical of Caucasians, immediately said, “Feeling better? Able to speak normally now?”

Martin responded with a middle finger, as if he had done it countless times before: “What do you know? A bump on the head doubles my IQ.”

Elena, her chest puffed out and the white hoodie on her head sticking up comically, replied, “Good, now go find a job. I don’t want to deliver food to a lazy bum for another week. I have two little kids to support and can’t afford to take care of you.”

During Martin’s injury week, it had been Elena and her siblings delivering his meals.

“As Dr. Bill said, there’s a 70% chance you’ll recover in a week,” Harris Carter said, placing the paper bag on the low wooden table. “Free bread from the church, and this time there’s fried chicken.”

He turned to leave, adding, “Bill has been practicing for two months, treating twenty sheep and thirty-five cows without making a mistake.”

Before exiting, Harris turned back, “The bicycle is mine today. I’m going to tutor someone.”

“You two idiots, take me to see a vet!” Martin swore, taking the paper bag without hesitation.

Elena sat down next to Martin, touching her bruised backside, and said, “You don’t have decent medical insurance, and I don’t have the money to take you to a proper clinic. Bill used to live on this street and didn’t charge us for treatment.”

Martin took out the bread and started eating it with the fried chicken, reflecting on his injury and previous job, saying, “The house repairman owes me two weeks’ wages, and with this injury, I need to figure out a way to make more money.”

His pockets were as empty as his face, so some thoughts naturally sprang to mind.

“You’d better find some more money!” Elena snatched a piece of bread and took a big bite. “What you’ve been eating this week, and the months of freeloading, I’m not going to hold it against you. But the rent for this house hasn’t been paid by your deadbeat father for six months.”

She glared at him, her eyes fiercer than towering peaks: “The most infuriating thing is, this Monday, your father ran off with my mother, eloping in the name of true love!”

This reminder jolted Martin, and as he searched his memory, he sorrowfully discovered that his plight was more severe than mere poverty.

A month before Jack Davis took Emma Carter away, the previous Martin Davis had borrowed $6,000 in usurious loans from the owner of the House of Beasts.

The two had gallivanted off on a global adventure, leaving behind two messy situations.

Martin whispered, “The installment loan is due for the first payment soon.”

“Go pray to God for help,” Elena shrugged; there was no cheap sympathy among the poor.

Martin shook his head, “God doesn’t bless the impoverished.”

“It’s almost time for this year’s disability benefits review. My uncle James’s benefits have been collected by Jack for years, and now that Jack and Emma have run off, the benefits are in jeopardy.” Elena’s frustration turned to panic, “How the hell am I going to maintain this wretched life?”

Martin was about to inquire further when he remembered that this house belonged to James Carter and said, “Your uncle died eight years ago from eating bad flour.”

“I’m sure now that your head isn’t damaged,” Elena replied nonchalantly, pointing to the small grove behind the house. “James is buried there.”

A few days ago, she had worried about Martin, who had gone from being a poor fool to a fool and a pauper, needing to support another person. Now, with her mood eased, she said lightly, “James was fortunate to be freed from the suffering of the poor. We dug his grave ourselves.”

“Damn it!” Martin’s head throbbed; the damned poor in hell suffered from incurable diseases.

Elena pulled out her chipped phone, glanced at the time, and said, “I need to head to the mall for my temp job.”

Martin offered a comforting word, “Don’t worry, there’s always a way out.”

Elena, however, looked at the T-1000 poster and said, “Don’t go working for that damn theater troupe for free. He hasn’t returned to the Marietta troupe since he became famous.”

Martin was focused on solving his basic living issues and responded, “Don’t worry, I won’t work for free.”

Given Martin Davis’s past record, Elena warned him again before leaving, “You worthless bum, if you can’t manage, I’ll tally up how many times you and I clapped for each other and how much you owe me! Also, I’ll call the House of Beasts Club and tell them you’re willing to work as an escort to pay off your debt! Just think about why they lent you that usurious loan!”

“Isn’t clapping something you should be paying for? I always provide you with millions in goods!” Martin retorted, as if it were a matter of course.

Elena raised both hands, extending two middle fingers.

After finishing the bread and fried chicken, Martin felt somewhat relieved, as if the food had numbed his pain.

He quickly tidied up and stepped outside into the sunlight, surveying the area.

Marietta was a sparse, southern suburban town, and even in the dilapidated neighborhood of Clayton where Martin resided, each detached wooden house had a small yard.

In the neighboring yard, enclosed by a broken barbed-wire fence, a boy was digging a hole with a piece of cardboard at his feet.

He was Elena’s ten-year-old brother.

An old Dodge pickup truck with a dancing man painted on the side and “House of Beasts” written beneath it drove down the cracked road.

The truck stopped at the curb, and a muscular man in a jacket got out, looking at Martin and asking, “Martin Davis?”