With the conclusion of the Dogwood Festival, Atlanta's 2003 Spring Carnival had officially ended.
In a rundown neighborhood of Marietta, a satellite city just outside the ring road, Martin Davis limped into the living room, his injured knee throbbing with pain.
He had only been in North America for a week and was still adjusting.
Two yellowed posters clung to the bare wooden wallsâone featuring the cover of Gone with the Wind, the other depicting the T-1000 from Terminator 2.
Martin dropped onto the cloth-covered sofa, sending a puff of dust into the air. His nose twitched, ready to sneezeâuntil a sharp jab in his rear cut it short.
Beneath the fabric, rusty springs protruded through discolored sponges and torn non-woven fabric.
Cursing under his breath, he shifted to the other side, only for the foam cushion to sink into a crater. It felt as unstable as an overinflated balloon.
A balloon.
His heart clenched.
Not just because of the broken couch, but because it reminded him of his ridiculous end.
For years, Martin had worked in Beijing and Hengdu, honing his craft. He took on bit roles, learned stunts, and scraped his way up the industry ladder.
At the beginning of the new year, he finally landed a role in a TV seriesâa supporting character ranked within the top five of the cast. If things went well, he could hold out for another five or six years and eventually gain the status of a seasoned actor.
To celebrate, he indulged in homemade cocktails and two generously proportioned "balloons." Somewhere in that intoxicated haze, he suffocated.
When he opened his eyes again, it was Georgia, 2003.
The previous Martin Davis had been in bad shape. His last job was as a handyman, fixing houses. A week ago, he fell off a roof, cracking his skull and breaking his leg.
And now, he was this Martin Davis, a 22-year-old American. His memories from this past life existed, but they felt like encrypted filesâloading sluggishly, fragments unlocking one by one.
For the past week, he'd spent most of his time reacquainting himself with the language. Now, he could finally hold a conversation without tripping over words.
The front door swung open, and Elena Carter strode in, keys jingling in her hand. Behind her, her younger brother, Harris Carter, followed, clutching a paper bag.
Elena had delicate features, a tall, lean frame, and smooth skin, free from the freckles common among many white women. She barely stepped inside before firing off a question.
"Is your brain still scrambled? Can you talk properly now?"
Martin, as if it were second nature, shot her a middle finger. "What do you know? Hitting your head boosts IQ."
Elena smirked, raising her chin. Her white hoodie lifted slightly, emphasizing her curves. "Good. Now get off your ass and find a job. I'm done feeding a bum. I've got two little ones to take care ofâI can't afford a third."
For the past week, while Martin was injured, Elena's younger siblings had been bringing him food.
"Dr. Bill says your recovery chances are about seventy percent," Harris chimed in, setting the paper bag on the low wooden table. "This time, the church's free bread came with fried chicken."
He turned to leave, adding, "Bill's been practicing for two months. He's treated twenty sheep and thirty-five cows without a single failure."
Before stepping out, Harris tossed over his shoulder, "I'm taking the bike. Got a tutoring gig."
"You two idiots took me to a damn vet?" Martin growled, snatching up the paper bag without hesitation.
Elena plopped down beside him, shifting to ease the soreness in her hip. "You don't have health insurance, and I don't have money for a real clinic. Bill used to live on this streetâhe doesn't charge us."
Martin pulled out a piece of bread and took a bite of the fried chicken. His mind drifted to his injury, then to his previous job. "That bastard handyman still owes me two weeks' pay. And with this injury⊠I need to find a way to get more money."
His pockets were emptier than his stomach, and desperate ideas began to surface.
"You'd better," Elena muttered, snatching a piece of bread for herself. "I won't nag you about the meals we've given you this weekâor the freeloading you've done these past few monthsâbut your deadbeat dad hasn't paid rent in six months."
Her expression darkened, her glare as sharp as a dagger. "And the real kicker? That bastard kidnapped my mom last Monday and ran off, calling it 'true love and freedom'!"
Martin exhaled sharply.
Digging through his new memories, he confirmed his life was even worse than he thought.
A month before Jack Davis eloped with Emma Carter, he'd convinced his son, the previous Martin, to take out a $6,000 high-interest loan from the owner of Beast House.
Then the two lovebirds took off, gallivanting around the world, leaving behind nothing but debts and destruction.
Martin muttered under his breath, "The first installment of that loan is coming due soon."
Elena shrugged. "Go ask God for a miracle."
Martin scoffed. "God doesn't bless poor people."
She crossed her arms. "Speaking of moneyâJack's been collecting my uncle James' disability check for years. Now that he's gone, those payments are going to stop. How the hell am I supposed to survive without money?"
Martin frowned, sifting through his inherited knowledge. "Your uncle died eight years ago from eating bad flour."
"Good to see your brain's working again." Elena didn't seem fazed. She nodded toward the woods behind the house. "He's buried right back there."
Martin felt a headache coming on.
The poor had their own special kind of sufferingâone that seemed impossible to cure.
Elena pulled out her battered cellphone, checked the time, and stood. "I've got a shift at the mall."
Martin gave her a casual nod. "Don't worry, something will work out."
She scoffed, glancing at the T-1000 poster. "Don't go working for that damn theater troupe for free anymore. None of them ever came back here after making it big."
Survival was Martin's immediate priority. He nodded. "Don't worry, I won't."
But before leaving, Elena gave him one last warning. "You've got a criminal record, poor bastard. If you can't make money, I'll start charging you for all the times you've bummed off me. And if you still can't pay, I'll call Beast House and tell them you're willing to whore yourself out to clear your debt. Ever wonder why they were so willing to lend you money?"
Martin raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn't you pay for applause? I deliver goods worth millions every time."
Elena lifted both hands and flipped him off.
After finishing his meal, Martin stretched his legs, suddenly feeling as if they weren't in as much pain.
He stepped outside into the sun, taking in his surroundings.
Marietta was a quiet town, sparsely populated. Even in this rundown Clayton neighborhood, every single wooden house had a small, scrappy yard.
In the yard next door, separated by a rusted wire fence, a young boy was digging a hole. A few pieces of cardboard lay at his feet.
That was Elena's ten-year-old brother.
Down the cracked road, an old Dodge pickup rumbled to a stop. The side of the truck bore a spray-painted image of a dancing man, with bold letters beneath it:
"Home of the Beast."
The door creaked open, and a broad-shouldered man stepped out, his jacket straining over his muscular frame.
He looked Martin over and asked, "Martin Davis?"