Scott actually put down the bottle, stood up, and seriously checked the camera. Suddenly, his nose turned even redder: "Kid, where's my tape? You stole my tape!"

"Don't accuse people falsely." Martin made up nonsense off the cuff: "The tape inside the cassette was used to tie a splint for your son. Go ask Eleanor for it."

Hearing his eldest daughter's name, Scott plopped back down and refused to mention Eleanor: "Tell that bastard Harris the tape is worth 20 dollars. He has to bring the money over tomorrow."

Martin skipped over this and asked, "Got any cheap phones?"

Yesterday, the phone he used was borrowed from Lily by Mrs. Wood.

"Broke-ass, you got money to buy a phone?" Scott thought of a possibility: "Did that bastard Jack come back? Tell me, where is he!"

A normal guy whose wife got taken away would be out for blood, but Scott's brain works differently: "Let me count, how many days has that bastard run off with Emma? Damn it, who knows how many times they've fucked. I'm charging by the day, at least 100... no, 200 dollars a day!"

It's too hard to communicate with someone on a different wavelength. Martin couldn't be bothered to say more and was ready to leave.

But Scott fished out a phone from under the counter: "European make, extra sturdy. You could die and it would still work."

Martin took it—a gray candy-bar phone. He'd used this secondhand model in his previous life, a Nokia 3210.

Something felt off. He turned it over and found the back cover was cracked and glued back together, with a hole right in the center of the crack.

Scott took a swig of liquor: "This is a lucky phone. I don't show it to just anyone. The Eagles gang got into a shootout, a delivery kid got hit by a ricochet, and the phone took the bullet for him. The battery was shot, so I replaced it myself."

Martin turned it on, made sure it worked, and asked, "How much?"

Scott waved his hand, looking generous: "Take it."

If this belonged to Harris or Eleanor, Martin would have just taken it. But this was Scott, a drunk and a junkie, who hadn't wanted to spend a dime on his kids since Eleanor was sixteen.

The most expensive things are the ones that come free. Martin took 20 dollars out of his pocket, put it on the counter, and left with the phone.

Scott was surprised: "When did this idiot get smart?"

Martin found a place to register the phone, bought several newspapers—especially those on social economy and entertainment—and went back to his rented place to read them carefully.

He had to understand the state of society.

Since the 1996 Olympics, Atlanta's development had accelerated further. Black people, who made up 40% of the population, had seen significant improvements in economic, political, and social status.

Correspondingly, black gangs, who had mainly operated in the southern metropolitan area, began moving into the city's bustling districts, clashing with the existing white powers. Robberies and shootings happened frequently.

Martin even saw a job ad for "Beast House" in a tabloid. The club had just opened and was hiring male dancers.

Should he go check it out?

A chill ran down his back, and the rear window banged.

The wind had picked up.

Martin went to close the window. The backyard was full of weeds. Suddenly, he remembered there was a dead body buried in the yard, in a hole he and Eleanor had dug.

The gentle spring breeze suddenly turned into a gust of eerie wind.

Trying to jump out and scare people? Martin decided to throw a party in the backyard in a few days, invite a bunch of people over, and crank up the hard rock and disco.

He'd overexerted himself last night, so he took a nap at noon. In the afternoon, Martin wandered around the Clayton community, looking for quick money-making opportunities.

Honestly, there were plenty—there were weeds and meth everywhere.

Those who didn't mess with that stuff mostly did odd jobs like Eleanor, and only a few had steady work.

His predecessor, Martin-Davis, had never held a steady job, living off Eleanor for a long time. He most often went to the Marietta community theater, dreaming of becoming a star.

Martin decided to go check it out.

After another day of rest, Martin's body had basically recovered. It happened to be the weekend, the theater's regular activity time, so he hopped on an old minibus to Margaret Square.

The memorial hall for Margaret-Mitchell, author of "Gone with the Wind," was located here.

Martin walked toward the memorial, glanced at the words "When Hollywood Meets Marietta" on the wall at the entrance, went around the memorial, and headed to a small theater in the back.

A van was parked at the theater entrance. Jerome-Mitchell, dressed in formal wear, was directing people unloading goods. When he saw Martin, he barked, "Hurry up, come help!"

He was the head of the Marietta community theater, rumored to be related to the Margaret-Mitchell family.

Martin deliberately limped over and carried a small box into the theater.

Jerome asked, "You disappeared for a week and held up a lot of the theater's work."

Martin hobbled past him: "I hurt my leg in a fall. As soon as I could get out of bed, I came straight here."

Jerome's gaze was sharp, staring at Martin like a boss catching an employee slacking off.

Once the goods were in the storeroom, a dozen people moved into the small theater, sitting in twos and threes in the seats below the stage.

There are over 7,000 community theaters in America, and Marietta is just one of the less remarkable ones.