Chapter 4: The Barren Land

Mark never had a particularly good impression of this woman. If she had been a little sharper, perhaps things wouldn't have come to this. In the original owner's memories, her name was Evelyn Harper. She wasn't a native of the village but had arrived years ago as a refugee fleeing hardship.

She eventually settled down with William Harper, a reclusive bachelor from the village. A year later, she gave birth to a son, but that was the only child she ever had. Her husband disappeared shortly after the Great Depression began, vanishing without a trace. Some folks said he had died somewhere far from home.

Despite her circumstances, Evelyn had a decent reputation in the village. She was a proper-looking woman, likely from the South, with a gentle nature. She got along well with the villagers, and her son was known to be well-behaved and sensible.

"I came to check on you. Are you alright? I... I was so scared. I'm sorry."

Evelyn stood at the door, clutching the tail of her blue headscarf with trembling fingers, unable to meet Mark's gaze.

Mark sighed and sat up, taking in her flustered expression. His earlier anger dissipated. He recalled the chaos of that night—her blouse had been nearly torn off in the scuffle. Though she wasn't an innocent maiden, with her personality, she must have been utterly mortified.

Besides, blaming the victim wasn't the kind of thinking he wanted to adopt.

It was understandable.

"Forget about it," Mark said, waving a hand dismissively. "Just don't let anyone else know. If word gets out, I'll have a harder time explaining things than you will. Understand?"

"I won't say a word!" Evelyn assured him hastily. She exhaled in relief before pulling something from the inner pocket of her checkered coat—a banknote. Hesitating, she intended to leave it on the windowsill but, fearing the wind might carry it away, she tossed it inside instead.

Mark blinked at the fluttering paper, his mind momentarily blank as he processed what he was seeing.

A hundred-dollar bill.

For a moment, he wondered if he had ended up in an entirely different timeline. Was this even the same era?

If the original owner's memories were accurate, a hundred dollars in the middle of the Great Depression was an absurd amount of money—especially for a village widow to hand out so casually.

This single banknote, along with some food, could have covered more than half a year of schooling expenses for him.

"Where did you get this?" Mark asked instinctively.

During these hard times, very few in rural areas had large bills like this. Most people who did had already spent their money on overpriced grain. Who could afford to hold onto a hundred-dollar note—especially a struggling widow with a child?

"I saved it," Evelyn said, avoiding his gaze. Her lack of eye contact made it obvious that she was a poor liar. After a brief hesitation, she added, "I was terrified that night. My mind went blank. I barely remember getting home. Just take the money, it's yours. No strings attached. And be careful around Bobby Miller and Charlie Hensley... I have to go."

Without giving him a chance to reply, she hurried away.

Mark watched her retreating figure before glancing down at the banknote. It was real—crisp, official, and carrying a weight far beyond its mere monetary value.

Weird.

Still, he wasn't about to turn down free money. He had nothing to his name, and having some cash on hand wasn't a bad thing. Besides, if Evelyn had truly been struggling, she wouldn't have given him so much. It wouldn't ruin her to part with it.

His focus shifted to the names she had mentioned—Bobby Miller and Charlie Hensley.

Those two.

It all clicked now. These were the same low-life thugs responsible for tormenting Evelyn—and for killing the original Mark.

The memories surfaced vividly. The two of them were well-known troublemakers from the neighboring village, barely a mile away. The kids from both villages attended the same schoolhouse growing up, and even then, Bobby and Charlie had been bullies. The original Mark had endured his fair share of their torment.

Mark exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers to his temples. His blood simmered with barely contained anger.

If they had just roughed up the original Mark and left him alive, things might have been different.

But they didn't.

And now, he was here.

Justice needed to be served.

"You killed him," Mark muttered to himself, his jaw tightening. "I don't see why I shouldn't return the favor."

Still, before dealing with them, he had more immediate concerns.

"First things first—food."

His stomach grumbled, pulling him back to the present. He got to his feet and peeked outside. Isabelle sat quietly in the shade of the yard, lost in thought. Mark carefully shut the door behind him and latched the window before making his way back to the farmstead.

He needed to take stock of what he had.

A thought crossed his mind, and in the next instant, he was inside his storage house. Everything looked just as he had left it.

He let out a breath of relief.

Thankfully, his supplies were untouched.

His inventory was generous compared to what most had during these desperate times—fifteen packs of salted roasted chicken legs, a fifty-pound sack of flour, two ten-pound bags of rice, a four-liter jug of olive oil, some instant bread, and a variety of snacks.

The fridge held twenty pounds of beef, a dozen pounds of pork, and over twenty frozen chicken legs.

After a quick assessment, Mark wasted no time. He tore open a pack of salted chicken legs and dug in, chasing it with a cold can of sugar-free cola from the fridge. The sweet carbonation fizzed on his tongue, making him momentarily forget the strange circumstances surrounding his survival.

By the time he finished, the storage room was littered with wrappers. Five packs of chicken legs, four bags of chips, two large bags of bread, and three cans of soda.

He could still eat more.

But he held back. This wasn't his old body. Overeating could cause problems, and he needed to pace himself.

Even so, he had no doubt he'd be paying for this feast later.

Standing, he wiped his mouth and caught sight of his reflection in the full-length mirror near the wardrobe.

A young man of about 5'9" stared back at him, his cropped hair a staple of the era. His deep-set eyes, thick brows, and sharp features carried a faint resemblance to his old self, but the malnourished complexion gave him a gaunt, hardened look.

It wasn't just hunger from a day or two.

This was years of deprivation.

Mark exhaled, rubbing his face. He had absorbed the memories of this life, but now he had to truly live it.

His gaze drifted outside to the barren land surrounding the farm.

No crops. No hope of a harvest.

And once his stockpile ran out?

That was a problem.

One he needed to solve—fast.