But when he saw Dr. Carter looking at him with an expression like he was an idiot, Henry Clark started to feel that something was wrong.

He felt a bit panicked inside.

He was just an ordinary office worker—who would spend a fortune to hire an actor of this caliber just to trick him???

"It's over... turns out he really is an idiot." Dr. Carter looked up, showing a helpless expression.

"An idiot paired with an idiot, you two are really something."

She turned her face to glance out the window.

"It's still early. When it gets dark, you'll understand. I'm leaving now. Grace, keep an eye on him, don't let him open the door tonight."

"Okay," Little Grace nodded quickly.

Seeing Dr. Carter about to leave, Little Grace hurriedly called out.

"Medicine! Sis!" she called anxiously.

"..." Dr. Carter heard the voice, turned back to glance at Henry Clark, and understood.

She fished a mercury thermometer out of her pocket and stuck it in Henry Clark's mouth.

"Take your temperature."

After a while, she pulled out the thermometer and checked it.

"38...5, you won't die."

"My medicine is no good," Little Grace quickly handed over the medicine box in her hand for the other to see.

The mold spots on the medicine made Dr. Carter frown as well.

"Grace, I'm running low on medicine too. The post office only goes to town once a month."

Hearing this, Little Grace immediately got anxious, looked around, and quickly found something like a yam on top of a cabinet in the corner, handing it over.

"Trade, this, trade... medicine!"

Dr. Carter shook her head, saying it wasn't enough.

Then Little Grace started rummaging elsewhere.

The two haggled, their voices constantly drifting into Henry Clark's ears.

Listening to them made him feel groggy, his spirit growing weaker, and soon he gradually drifted off to sleep again.

The pain in his throat, the dizziness in his head, and the weakness all over his body made it impossible for him to get up.

His body's instinctive self-healing mechanism prompted him to quickly recover his strength through sleep.

Time flew by.

He didn't know how long had passed. Maybe an hour, maybe three. For someone in a daze, time had no measure.

Henry Clark slowly woke up from his stupor.

His whole body ached, he felt weak and powerless, his throat felt blocked by something, a large lump stuck there, making it impossible to speak.

Opening his eyes, he struggled to prop himself up from the bed and looked around.

The room was quiet.

This small square bedroom had walls and a ceiling made of wood, pale yellow in color.

The floor was black earth, flat and dry, with some grass even growing in the corners.

Henry Clark slowly turned to the side, put his legs over the edge of the bed, and then gradually let them hang down, touching the ground.

The solid feeling of his feet on the ground made him inexplicably relax a little.

He looked down at himself.

A grayish-white short-sleeved T-shirt, with a cartoon tiger head on the chest, stained with some yellow marks. His pants were light yellow casual pants, but now looked very wrinkled.

Both big toes had poked through his gray socks, the toes caked with black earth sticking out.

'What is this?' He glanced at the back of his hand, and at some point, a black mark had appeared on the back of his right hand.

The mark looked like an ancient seal, a square stamp with a lump of mud-like stuff on top, no patterns, no writing—at a glance, it looked like a birthmark.

But Henry Clark clearly remembered that he didn't have such a big birthmark, let alone on the conspicuous back of his right hand.

He reached out and rubbed the mark—no pain, no itch.

He tried to wipe it off, but it wouldn't come off, so he gave up for now.

After checking himself over and confirming there were no external injuries, Henry Clark stroked the stubble on his chin and turned his head to look at the window.

The window was on the right side of the bed, square-shaped, nailed shut inside and out with horizontal wooden planks, very securely. It looked like something meant to keep out the mentally ill, a sense of unease amid the mess.

Outside the window was a dim yellow light, slanting in and leaving a dull yellow patch by the bed.

Henry Clark took a breath and felt the air was strange, with an indescribable burnt stench.

He walked a few steps to the door. At the foot of the wooden door, he saw a thick stack of old newspapers.

He paused, bent down, and with difficulty picked up the stack, looking at the top sheet.

"Top Alert: Major Black Disaster Strikes Nationwide in Recent Days"

The huge headline took up almost half the front page.

Below were the details.

"...The frequent outbreaks of the black disaster and the weakness of the response departments have brought great threats to the safety of the people. Facing the severe situation, the National Disaster Prevention Committee has urgently established the Emergency Management Department, launching rapid response in areas severely affected by the black disaster, and organizing rescue efforts with all their might."

Rustle.

Henry Clark frowned and turned to the back page.

A photo of a bustling rescue scene in a disaster area appeared before him.

It was a gray, ruined building, people in heavy protective suits carrying stretchers, hauling out charred human bodies.

"Black disaster?" He had never heard this term before.

Then he turned to the next newspaper.

"Major Insect Disaster Strikes—How Should We Respond?"

"Food Shortages, Water Difficulties—National Rescue Teams Go All Out to Save Tens of Thousands in Crisis"