Old Tom, who had nearly taken a punch from a Kryptonian, hadn't been wrong about one thing.
The ferry from Alaska barely checked anyone leaving the Port of Los Angeles. You could just drive off. Boarding was even simpler—show your ticket, and no one cared whether there was anything dangerous in your luggage or vehicle.
Before the September 11 attacks in the twenty-first century, America had a baffling confidence in the security of its homeland. They were always the ones stirring up trouble on other people's soil. Who would dare bring trouble to their doorstep?
In any case, as Henry drove along the streets of Los Angeles, the feeling that it was all unreal refused to leave him. Passing the beach, he found nothing like the sunshine, sand, and bikinis he had imagined.
The somewhat desolate coastline and howling sea wind poured into the car. Even with a Kryptonian's body, immune to heat and cold, he still thought opening the windows in winter was stupid.
It was like driving a convertible in the rain, then wearing a raincoat or holding an umbrella inside because you didn't know how to close the top.
Every now and then, he spotted a few surfing fanatics in full-body wetsuits, challenging the winter waves.
To be fair, their surfing skills were quite good. Maybe anyone without the skills wouldn't want to torture themselves in winter.
By chance, he saw a film crew shooting on the beach.
The handsome men and beautiful women surrounded by cameras wore swim trunks and bikinis fit only for summer, pretending to enjoy the beach and sunshine.
Compared to the actors, the crew behind the scenes were bundled up until each looked puffier than the last. The actors were probably cursing in their hearts.
Only then did Henry gradually begin to feel that coming to Los Angeles was real.
So, what should he do next?
He had thought a great deal aboard the ship, but all of it had been broad, general planning.
Now he had to ask himself what, specifically, he should do.
When he passed a newsstand, Henry pulled over, got out, and walked up to it. He rummaged through his pocket, took out a five-dao bill, and placed it on the counter. Then he picked up a copy of the Los Angeles Times and told the owner, "And a map."
"A tourist map, or..." the middle-aged man at the stand asked.
"A detailed one. I'll be living in Los Angeles for a while."
The man pulled out a folded sheet map and handed it to Henry. He set down several coins in change and casually asked, "Where're you from?"
"Alaska," Henry said bluntly.
"Oh, no wonder. Seeing you dressed like that, I was starting to wonder whether Los Angeles was about to snow."
Henry's coat was windproof and water-resistant, a standard snow coat rather than an ordinary coat meant mainly for warmth. That was why the middle-aged newsstand owner had said so.
"Oh, my God. I've seen enough snow already. Does Los Angeles get snow?" Henry asked.
"When it gets especially cold. But it's been a long time since anyone's seen it. If you want to ski, head east to Big Bear Lake. They've got some decent ski resorts there."
"No, absolutely not. Just seeing snow makes me sick now, and you want me to ski on it? Wouldn't it be better to just roll down?" After complaining, Henry asked, "There are so many decorations on the streets. Are they getting ready to celebrate Christmas?"
"Yeah, Christmas, then New Year's. Same thing every year. Not much creativity," the man said jokingly.
Henry joked back, "If one year were different, that would be bad."
"Yeah. Ha ha." Realizing Henry had caught his joke, the middle-aged man laughed happily.
Henry grabbed his change and map, then said, "Thanks. I'm off."
"Merry Christmas," the man wished him.
"Merry Christmas."
Back in the car, Henry continued driving. Though it was already past noon, he had disembarked at just the wrong time and hadn't had lunch, so he could only look for a restaurant along the way.
American restaurants came in different tiers, and Henry didn't head for the most upscale ones. Reservations were secondary at places like that; if you wanted to get in, there was a dress code.
If someone showed up in a tank top, flip-flops, and shorts, never mind a rich man—even a billionaire would be turned away by the restaurant manager. Dressed as he was now, Henry had a high chance of being stopped outside.
Besides, those places were expensive. Other than businesspeople holding meals, they mostly existed to fleece tourists.
Henry found a family-style restaurant that didn't give off any strange smells. After parking, he took his newspaper, map, and backpack inside.
That backpack contained everything he owned: more than twenty bundles of hundred-dollar bills, cramming the small bag until it bulged.
Considering America's public safety situation, Henry had never considered leaving the bag in the car. That would practically be inviting someone to smash the window and steal it.
Of course, whenever he needed to take out a little money, he had loose bills and larger notes tucked into every pocket.
Whenever he needed to pay, he had to reach around and dig through his pockets before scraping together enough. It made him look especially broke, so no one would suspect he was carrying a fortune.
Speaking of his life before crossing over, the thing he had done best was pretending. If he wasn't playing dumb, he was playing dead. Keeping his wealth hidden was practically instinctive.
There weren't many people in the restaurant during the afternoon. Henry chose a seat in the sunlight, placed his belongings on the inside seat, and took off his coat.
The waitress quickly came over carrying a coffee pot. "Hot coffee?"
"Yes, please." The empty coffee cup sat upside down on its saucer. Henry turned it over and asked for a cup.
As the plump waitress poured the coffee, she asked, "Need anything else?"
"What else do you have to eat, sweetheart? I haven't had lunch yet."
The plump waitress gave him a perfectly timed eye roll, as if she were immune to sweet talk. It wasn't offensive, but it clearly conveyed her attitude. "We have bacon, sausage, and fried eggs. If you want, I can have a steak cooked for you too."
"I'll take one of everything. I'm starving." Henry drained his coffee in one gulp, then added, "Oh, sweetheart, if you don't mind, you can leave the coffee pot."
"Okay, if you need it." After refilling Henry's coffee, the plump waitress left the half-full pot behind and went to notify the kitchen.
Although her face showed all kinds of disdain, the difference in her footsteps from before made it clear that her mood had improved.
Before long, a plate piled high with bacon, sausage, and fried eggs was served. The plump waitress wasn't exactly being delicate, but her movements were much gentler. "The steak will take a little longer. Eat these first. Would you like some bread or crackers?"
"Some bread, please. Thank you."
At that moment, she noticed Henry flipping through the map. The plump waitress casually asked, "Here to study? Sightseeing? Or chasing a dream of stardom?"
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