The Return Journey

Henry pushed the stack of cash in the middle back out.

In response to Tom's question, Henry said bluntly, "Depends on what other documents you think I need. Whatever you can help me with, go ahead and handle it. I figure I should have a driver's license."

Same problem—Henry wasn't familiar with this world. Even before the transmigration, he didn't know this country across the ocean. So when in doubt, he had to ask the local expert.

This time, Tom took the stack of cash on the table without hesitation. Ten thousand dollars—who wouldn't want that?

He brought the bills to his nose, sniffed them, then fanned through them a few times before grinning with satisfaction. "Alright. I'll have the documents ready along with the car's transfer papers when you come back to town next time. If you're in a hurry, give me at least three days."

"No rush. I won't be back for a week. But is that enough money?"

"Plenty, big boss." Tom thought for a moment, then turned serious. "But now I've got a question for you, big boss. Henry what?"

"What?" Henry was confused.

"Your last name. Your surname. You can't just have 'Henry' on your documents—it'd look suspicious without even checking."

That was true...

So the surname issue was back on the table. What last name should he use? Kent? Wayne? El? Krypton? Ennuo Owen, the one the Russians gave him? Or just keep it simple with Owen?

After thinking it over, Henry gave his answer. "Henry Brown."

It was Old John's surname. The first person to show him kindness in this world after he transmigrated.

He was borrowing it—it wasn't like he wanted to be his adopted son. Old John probably wouldn't mind. It wasn't some noble name with a title to inherit.

"Does that work?" Henry asked.

"Of course, big boss. Even if you wanted to call yourself Charlie Brown and get a dog, I wouldn't mind." Tom joked.

"Then it's settled. See you in a week." Henry picked up his backpack, ready to leave.

Tom originally planned to just wave him off from his seat. But then, as if remembering something, he got up, grabbed an empty box, and followed him out.

"What's up?" Henry asked again.

"I'll clean out the junk in the car, plus some personal stuff. No point leaving it there for you to look at. Might as well let me take it, right?"

"Fine." Henry knew the truth—freebies were just trash. He just needed a car, not whatever weird junk was stuffed inside.

Tom ended up hauling away quite a bit of 'trash.' Including used—or maybe unused—condoms, Coke cans under the seat cushions, bottle caps, coins, and so on.

The most eye-catching item was a short revolver in the glove compartment. It was well-oiled and shiny, clearly maintained regularly.

As he took the revolver, Tom added, "Alaska doesn't require a concealed carry permit. You just register the purchase when you buy a gun so the police can track it. So if you don't have a gun permit later, it's not because I won't help you—it's because there's no such thing in Alaska."

Henry wasn't about to use a gun anyway, so taking it away was fine. He didn't care about Tom's extra comment. "No problem. I don't need it."

"Friendly advice—if you're going to drive around Alaska, at least get yourself a shotgun. Otherwise, when you run into a bear, you'll have to fight it barehanded."

Henry paused as he was about to open the car door and get in. Turning back, he asked, "Are there a lot of bears?"

"You'll run into one when you're unlucky. And when you'll be unlucky—who can say, right?"

Considering he wasn't exactly afraid of Earth's bears, he only asked out of curiosity about bear paws and gallbladders. Henry waved a hand. "Got it." Then he got in the car.

Just as Henry was about to drive off, Tom stopped him again. He had Henry roll down the window and handed him a road atlas. "This map's old, but Alaska hasn't changed much in decades. You'll definitely need it."

"Thanks."

Henry tossed the map onto the passenger seat, within easy reach, and started driving.

He'd learned to drive a manual car before the transmigration, but he never had the money to buy one. Decades later, the skill had gotten rusty, but with his super senses and super brain, driving wasn't a big deal.

The well-broken-in old car started off smoothly.

As for spatial awareness while driving—no problem at all. With American roads, especially in Alaska, finding another car to hit was harder than avoiding one. No way he'd get stuck or crash into anything.

Before heading back to Old John's bar, he drove to the town's store to buy some things.

It was a general store run by an elderly couple. They sold everything from clothes to lawnmowers, from Coke to Parathion. The selection within each category was limited, but the variety covered just about everything.

Both of them were regulars at Old John's bar. Or rather, who in town wasn't a regular at the only bar around?

Today, only the old lady was minding the store. As soon as she saw Henry walk in, she greeted him warmly. "Hey there, young man, you're back. How was the haul this trip?"

"The captain made a killing, so our pay was pretty good too." Henry said directly.

It wasn't a lie, nor was it too modest. Everyone knew he was just a greenie—no way he'd get the biggest cut. But coming back safe already put him ahead of plenty of others.

The old lady behind the counter said, "Take whatever you need. I'll give you twenty percent off as a gift. Old John's been talking about you nonstop these past few days. Buy what you need and head back to see him soon."

"Got it." Henry grabbed a few sets of clothes and underwear, then some snacks. He also picked up some frozen food. He felt bad always eating Old John's food for free.

He thought about bringing a gift back, but Old John wasn't the type to like purely sentimental items. As for what the bar might be missing or what needed replacing—there really wasn't anything.

Don't assume a lonely old man would be a slob who couldn't get by. With his practical skills, nothing in his life was broken and barely usable, nor was there any clutter lying around.

Henry, who had also lived alone, knew well that if an outsider gave such a person a gift that didn't fit, it would just feel like an annoyance taking up space.

As for what kind of gift would hit the mark—even asking the man himself might not yield an answer. So Henry decided not to overthink it.

Men don't get all teary-eyed over ceremonial stuff.

What stirs emotion might be a pair of long legs spotted on the street, a perfectly straight stick picked up by chance, or some idiot's meme.

Given Old John's background, maybe tying up a Japanese devil or a Nazi and bringing him over would be more appreciated?

Henry thought to himself.

New book—requesting follow-up reads, collections, and recommendations. Thank you~