Chapter 3: "You Dare Come Back?"

The woman who had just questioned him turned out to be Mara "Greyfeather" Hock, the local witch-doctor from Dusthawk, Oklahoma. But the events that led to this moment all began two days ago, when the original Mark Thompson dropped out of school.

At seventeen, Mark had already been forced to leave high school—there was no money for tuition, and with food growing scarce at home, the choice was made for him. He had potential, though. In a town like theirs, a high school education was rare, and those who could attend were often the brightest in the area. Yet, for Mark, the dream of continuing his studies was just that—a dream.

The very first day after dropping out, something happened that would change everything.

In the woods near his home, Mark stumbled upon two local troublemakers harassing a woman from the village. As an "Upstanding Young American," he couldn't just stand by. Fueled by a strong sense of justice, Mark intervened, managing to stop the men, though not without a price. They gave him a brutal beating—expertly avoiding his face and targeting the places where bruises wouldn't be visible. At first, Mark felt fine and didn't mention the incident to his family, but by nightfall, feverish and delirious, he collapsed into unconsciousness.

His mother, Mary Thompson, realized something was wrong and hurriedly sought the help of Mara Hock. Unfortunately, Mara was no true doctor. With only a few books on herbal remedies and folk medicine, she made a wild guess that Mark's illness was the result of stress from his failed academic ambitions. She claimed his body had been overwhelmed by "evil winds" and prescribed a mix of fever-reducing herbs. By the next morning, Mark was no longer alive in the body he once knew.

The lack of proper healthcare in rural America during this time meant that even a simple illness could turn fatal. By the time Mara's diagnosis came, it was too late.

Now, Mark's mind was clear again, and as memories of the past flooded him, he quickly grasped the situation. He found a believable excuse—something in line with the era's language—and addressed his mother's concerns.

"I've thought it over, Mom. Everything I needed to learn, I've learned. As Hoover said, 'Every wheat field is a ballot cast for prosperity.' Farmers like us, we're all part of that future. I never had any thoughts of giving up because of school!"

For now, he needed to navigate the situation with Mara carefully, until he figured out more pressing matters—like the state of the farm.

As for the two men who had caused the original Mark's death, Mark had his own plan for them. But he knew better than to openly entertain the idea now. After all, if anything untoward happened to them, he would be the first suspect.

As his thoughts wandered, his eyes involuntarily shifted toward the back of the group, where a woman—clearly nervous—avoided his gaze. She was one of the women from earlier, the one he had tried to protect.

"Good to hear you've thought it through!" Joseph Hart, an elder in the village, clapped Mark on the back. "I watched you grow up, son. Now that you're a man, it's time to help out at home. When we get ahead, there'll be time to dream big."

"Yes, I understand, Uncle Joseph," Mark replied respectfully. "Thank you to everyone for your time."

Mark's response was polite, but inwardly, he couldn't help but feel pessimistic about the future. He wasn't sure what Joseph meant by "getting ahead," but he didn't think the old man had any idea what true change would require.

"Alright, folks, let's clear out. No need for gossip behind Mack's back. He's learned his lesson—let's keep our heads up! Ain't gonna let the future roll past us like a freight train, y'hear? We've got to grab hold of them radio wires and tractor gears or we'll be left behind, just like last year's Model T!" Joseph Hart scanned the crowd before pointing to two men in the group. "Hal, Earl, go let Walter Hughes know the boy's awake. Tell him there's no need for more work today. The rest of you get back to your fields."

The crowd scattered, each heading in their own direction.

Mara Hock glanced at Mark, sizing him up. "You need more medicine?" she asked with a hint of smugness.

"No, no," Mark waved her off. "I feel fine now. You go on about your business."

Mara smiled, clearly pleased with her own work. "Well, you look like you're back to yourself. If you ever need anything else, just come by. I won't charge you this time—go rest up!"

With a final hum, she turned and strolled off, her steps as casual as her demeanor.

Mark just shook his head. He wasn't sure what to make of Mara. Sometimes people could be strangely helpful, but her brand of "healing" was more luck than skill. He vowed never to visit her again, especially when it came to his health.

"You stay here and rest. I'll go work the fields," his father, Will Thompson, spoke up quietly, leaving with the rest of the villagers.

Mark lay back on the bed, facing his mother, Mary Thompson, who had seated herself on a stool nearby. He sighed, feeling a mix of emotions that were hard to describe.

"Thirsty?" she asked gently.

"No, Mom. I'm fine. I'll just sleep for a bit. You don't need to worry about me."

Mary touched his head tenderly. "You've grown up so fast. Your speech even sounds different now."

Tears welled in her eyes as she spoke. "You scared me half to death. I only have you, my boy. What would I do without you?"

Joseph had warned her to be cautious—there had been rumors of young people taking drastic actions in despair. There was a strange admiration for anyone who left the farm and made it in the city. Even working as a temporary laborer was seen as a sign of success.

Mary believed that, too. Mark had always wanted to go to school, even when the family had little to eat. He refused to give up, no matter how difficult things were. In the end, his parents had given in.

Mark's thoughts drifted as he recalled his childhood. The only son in the family, he had two older sisters—one already married—and a younger sister. His mother had struggled with health complications after his birth and could not bear any more children. For all intents and purposes, Mark was the family's future. He had been coddled and spoiled, never having to do much heavy labor.

Mary was a simple woman—hardworking, selfless, and the backbone of the family.

"It's nothing, Mom. We're just learning General American now, that's all. It's a government policy."

Mark still wasn't used to the language from his former life, but he tried to explain gently, clearing his throat. "And I wasn't scared, really. Mara just said some strange things. It's just a normal cold."

Mary's face softened, but she remained serious. "If you want to go back to school, we'll find a way. We'll sell whatever we have to, even if it means breaking the piggy bank."

Mark hesitated, but in the end, he said, "I've learned everything I could. It's all right now."

Mary's relief was palpable. She knew her son wasn't lying to her.

"Alright, you rest. You haven't eaten all day. I'll go borrow some eggs from your uncle."

"Thanks, Mom," Mark replied, his voice low.

"Now, you just rest, and don't worry about anything else."

As she left, Mark lay back again, his mind swirling with thoughts he couldn't fully understand. He couldn't help but feel that he had a unique sense of connection to this place, one that even the kindest people in the orphanage couldn't offer.

Just as he was about to leave for the fields, a movement outside the window caught his eye. A figure emerged from the shadows.

"You dare come back here?" Mark's voice was filled with tension as he watched the woman outside—the same one from earlier, the one he had saved. A widow, if he remembered correctly.