The next morning,
The sun did not come out. Jiang Hao got up and looked at the sky. It was overcast, as though it might rain. Forks lay deep within the mountain valleys on the western side of the Olympic Mountains, surrounded by forests. Three hundred days out of the year, the sun was nowhere to be seen. Endless rain was the norm here.
He looked over his room again. An old house, old furniture. Jiang Hao's home was a two-story wooden house. It was fairly spacious, but it had been around for many years. This was his home. After his parents died, he had lived here alone.
After taking a shower, he went downstairs to find something to eat. He opened the refrigerator and found only bread, jam, and a carton of milk. Jiang Hao checked the date. It would expire in one day.
He poured himself a glass of milk, spread jam on some bread, and had a simple meal.
He changed clothes and headed out. In the tool shed, he found his motorcycle—an old Harley. It was his means of transportation. He kicked hard, and the motorcycle started with Harley's distinctive roar.
"Not bad. The engine is powerful, and it's been well maintained," Jiang Hao muttered.
He rode out on the motorcycle, traveling down a stretch of dirt road before finally leaving his estate. The reservation had vast tracts of land, all privately owned by Native Americans. Jiang Hao's farm was quite large, around three hundred acres. However, with no one farming it, the land had all gone to waste. The distant forests and two hills also belonged to him. They were all left to him by his parents.
If these things were back in China, they would have been enviable wealth. But in the United States,