Over the course of the next several hours, Hutch cleaned the interior of the trailer, except for his mother's room. And when the last of the dishes were washed and drying on the counter, he emptied the cupboards, ensuring they were clean before reorganizing and putting everything back in a suitable fashion.
By then, Hutch's laundry was finished and what he saw as wearable, was folded, and put away. Everything else was separated into three piles, repairable, salvageable, and garbage. He had forgotten how many articles of clothing he owned, but as he saw the growing piles, he came to understand why his mother struggled financially; she was frivolous. While he may have had only had one pair of shoes at the time of his disappearance, it was because they were the only ones that fit. Beneath the mountain of jeans, t-shirts, and sweaters were several more pairs of shoes hidden away at the back of his closet, all worn-out and too small, save for the three pairs of sandals, of which one had a broken strap.
His mother, on the other hand, had a virtual thrift shop worth of shoes and clothing in her room. So much so that her closet and dressers were incapable of containing it all, thus allowing it to occupy half of her room. She'd never been good at keeping up with laundry, finding it easier to spend a few bucks at her favorite thrift or clearance section at the store, justifying any purchase as 'on sale' or 'way cheaper than new.' She brokered herself into constantly struggling, finding some semblance of joy in the bottom of a bargain bin, surrounded by cigarettes and empty beer cans. Although Hutch was thankful that Cherry had always kept the drinking to a reasonable amount.
Hutch could only assume that her spending habits were a result of how she'd been raised, back when she was known as Sheridan instead of the Cherry Bomb. She had not grown-up poor. Although far from rich, she had grown up comfortable enough. Her years of struggle only teaching her to spend cheap, instead of wisely.
When Hutch had finished organizing his clothing, he found himself rather hungry, which put him in an awkward position. He'd spent the better part of the last twenty years cooking over an open fire, making everything from scratch and raw resources, at least until Kahlala got fed up with his cooking and never let him do it when they were at home. He'd already seen the vaguely recognizable bits in the pantry and cupboards and the items in the fridge looked just as foreign; the freezer housing the worst of the offenders, stuffed full of microwavable meals, fit to consume only when cooked. And that was the quandary.
"This is so weird," he muttered to himself. "I remember you, little box. Put food in, press buttons, and when you beep, I get to eat. Your food will be subpar compared to my Kahlala's, but hopefully better than whatever it was I ate this morning." Taking the meal from the box, he set it on the counter and stared at the frozen contents beneath the thin film. "I do not have high hopes." Looking at the image on the box, then back at the meal, he sighed, "I don't think this is what chicken is supposed to look like either."
It wasn't difficult for him to remember how to use the microwave, and once his meal was ready, he moved it onto a plate and sat at the table, ready to dig in. Picking up his fork, which felt odd in his hand having used nothing but his fingers to eat for decades, he poked at the food in his tray, before cutting of a chunk of the chicken patty and stuffing it into his mouth.
The chicken was tender enough to cut with a fork, but was so salty it bordered on inedible. The mash of rehydrated potatoes was flavorless, gritty mush, and the green beans were saturated in a salty liquid of artificial butter flavoring. The meal was a chore to consume and required two glasses of water to wash down. The entire experience was a harsh reminder of the life he had lived before Illimev. It was noxious in its convenience. Start to finish, his lunch, including clean up, lasted less than fifteen minutes, and now he would have to find something else to do. In this modern world, there were different struggles from what he knew. Here there was no hunting, farming, or gathering for him to chore over. No cloth to weave, nothing to build, or animals to tend to. He was starting from scratch, and although he knew the chances were slim, he strapped on his best pair of sandals, grabbed a coat, and went outside to search for his shoes, despite having no memory of what they looked like or a concept of where they would have been.
As Hutch left the trailer, he carefully tested the porch's railings and assessed the deck and stair boards. He knew he'd need to replace them entirely and was surprised they were still holding together as well as they were. Glancing down their modest driveway, he took note of how the evergreens were infringing upon it, and how much they blocked the view of the road, that was riddled with potholes and mudpuddles.
Their trailer sat lengthwise to the road, as did their neighbors along that back boundary of the park. They were luckier than those across the road in that regard, as due to the layout of their lot, the driveway had a built-in turn around as they didn't have a second car to park across their front lawn, and Cherry preferred to pull in straight, nose to the side of their house. On the other side of the driveway, where Cherry normally parked, sat a small shed just large enough for some tools and their lawnmower.
Making his way to the back of the trailer, he wondered how either of the neighbors had managed to see him collapsed on the ground. The small yard they had was well-shaded and the motion-sensor light for the back patio, no longer worked. Like the front porch, the backsteps from the patio door were also rotten and had become the home of a healthy colony of moss. The stones of the patio were slowly being reclaimed by the ground they were sinking into. It as an oddly impressive sight, and sparked a desire to fix it all up, but Hutch shook the notion from his mind to focus back on his task. Moving further along the back of the trailer, her came across the spot he was certain he'd been found the night before, as the grass had been pushed down in all directions, a lingering path squished into the lawn where he'd been wheeled out on a stretcher. However, it wasn't the marks alone that had caught his eye, but rather the strange hue of the ground. Kneeling, he dragged his fingers along the bent, discolored blades of grass and visible earth. Lifting them, he rubbed the particles between his tips, muttering, "Myrrget."
Pushing away the grass, he scrapped more of the sand-like substance into his hand. The fine white particles unmistakable from the natural dark brown color of the earth. Standing, he began to look around the area. If the myrrget had found its way to their world, he had hope that the pieces of the amulet had too. Running back inside of the trailer, he grabbed a zip-lock bag, the hand broom, dustpan, and a flashlight, before making his way back outside. He was certain he must have looked like a crazy man, sweeping the grass, and gathering the dust into the baggy, but he couldn't risk losing the only possible proof, the only possible chance, that he may be able to find a way back to Illimev, and everyone he had left behind.
Gathering all he could of the myrrget, being as thorough as physically possible, he sealed the bag, and set the dustpan and hand broom on the back step. Taking the flashlight, he kneeled and turned it on, angling it to illuminate the grass. He knew where he was found, and he knew exactly where Salvador had been when he broke the amulet. It was a moment he would never forget, the details burned into his memory in a way that only trauma can. He could replay that moment in his mind with the same ease as breathing, every motion, every word, every strand of his xalgar's hair and the grains of myrrget as they blinded him. Giving the light a slight wave, his heart skipped a beat when something gleamed and caught his eye. Standing up, he made his way over to what remained of the broken wire fence, where the grass was thick and overgrown. Dropping to his knees, he pushed the weeds and grass aside, and pulled out the golden frame of the amulet. The size of his palm, it was rough and round, with decorate trimmings in the form of twisted vines. The nature of the metal made it feel lighter than it should have for its size, the chain with the broken clasp, that hung from it feeling heavier in comparison.
Setting the frame on his lap, he carefully pushed more of the grass aside, until he found the fragments of the crystal that used to be housed within it. Tears seeped from his eyes as the gathered the small pieces, a glass as thin as paper, and delicate as ice, setting them into the palm of his hand, each one giving him a tiny fragment of hope.