Such major events that are enough to influence the trends of international politics and economics—even if he knew about them, there was no way for him to make money for himself.

Could he run to the U.S. government and say, “I know something big is going to happen to you in 2001. Give me a huge sum of money and I’ll tell you the exact date”? Most likely, if he really did that, he’d either end up in jail or be directly deported from the United States...

As for going back to China, real estate was indeed a money-making business, but on one hand, he didn’t have the capital—not even enough to buy a single apartment. And even if he could afford to buy a place, by the time the property appreciated, he’d have starved to death long before...

Plagiarize the future web novels of the great authors? In 1999, the Chinese internet was still a paradise for liberals; everything written was posted for free, and having anyone read your work was already a compliment—how could you dare to charge money? Publishing in Taiwan could make money, but that was extremely rare. And again—the same problem: distant water can’t quench immediate thirst. Even if he really managed to get published in Taiwan, he’d probably already be a dried-up corpse from hunger.

In short, aside from immediately finding a job, he had no other means to support himself right now.

If it really didn’t work out...

Why not just go find a Chinese restaurant and wash dishes?

Dishwashing didn’t require any technical skills, nor did it demand education or work experience—he should be able to handle it.

Chasing dreams is certainly admirable and passionate, but first, you have to feed yourself. Otherwise, if you starve to death on the road to pursuing your dreams, who’s that on?

※※※

Lost in thought once again, William Clark suddenly felt things go a bit dark before his eyes.

Snapping back to reality, he found an old man standing in front of him.

He looked up to observe.

The clothes were relatively clean, but the combination was bizarre, as if he’d grabbed a piece from here and another from there and thrown them together at random. Maybe ten years from now people would call this postmodern style—very avant-garde, very fashionable—but right now, it only gave one impression: this was a beggar.

The old beggar stood in front of William Clark, looking at him in silence, simply extending his right hand.

William Clark looked around; there were people all around him, some standing, some walking, but in the old beggar’s eyes, it was as if only he existed. The beggar stood right in front of him, reaching out his hand.

William Clark didn’t wave the old beggar away or tell him to stop disturbing his thoughts.

He simply opened his hands and said to the man in front of him, “All I have on me is 231 pesetas. But I can’t give you this money, because I need it to survive myself.”

There were lots of people around, some hurrying by, some strolling leisurely, passing by William Clark and the old beggar. But not a single person glanced their way. William Clark noticed that everyone passed by with a perfectly normal expression, not even glancing sideways.

Even if Westerners value privacy, surely they can’t ignore things to this extent?

He found it odd.

But now wasn’t the time to think about that—the beggar was still standing in front of him, not leaving.

And from the looks of it, he wasn’t going to give up until he got what he wanted.

William Clark looked at him again and saw the beggar staring at the bread in his hand, eyes full of longing.

This was one of the staple foods for Spaniards—a baguette, about half a meter long. When he bought it, he’d planned to eat half for lunch and save the other half for dinner. As someone with less than two dollars in his pocket, this was the only way to scrimp and save. He didn’t even know where tomorrow’s meals would come from.

But now, it seemed dinner was a lost cause.

He sighed. “Alright, alright, I’ve only taken a few bites of this bread. If you don’t mind, I’ll break half off for you.”

The other party didn’t object.

William Clark carefully broke the bread in two.

He was careful because he didn’t want to spill too many crumbs—he couldn’t afford to waste food now.

He handed the half he hadn’t bitten to the old beggar.

The beggar didn’t refuse, taking a huge bite right away.

He really did look famished.

While chewing the bread, the beggar sat down beside William Clark.

William Clark looked at this uninvited old man and suddenly found it amusing.

With so many people here, how did he pick me?

But to him, William Clark was a stranger, and they’d probably never cross paths again in their lives.

Likewise, to William Clark, he was a stranger, and they’d probably never cross paths again.

After two months of bitterly chasing his dreams, now finally out of money and food, feeling a bit frustrated and lost, William Clark suddenly felt a strong urge to confide. And wasn’t this old beggar, munching bread beside him, a pretty good listener?

He wanted to tell the old beggar a story—not his own, but his brother’s.

“Hey, do you want to hear a story?” he asked the beggar beside him.

The beggar looked up, bread crumbs all around his lips.

He carefully licked all the crumbs away with his hand and tongue, then spoke for the first time: “Please go ahead.”

“So you’re not mute after all...” William Clark rolled his eyes when he heard him speak.