Henry pushed the stack of cash further into the middle of the table.
In response to Tom's inquiry, Henry said bluntly, "Take a look at whatever documents you think I'll need. Get whatever you can for me. I think I should at least have a driver's license."
Henry wasn't familiar with this world. Even before his transmigration, he hadn't been familiar with this country across the ocean. So whenever he was unsure, he had to consult the local expert.
This time, Tom accepted the thick stack of bills without hesitation. It was ten thousand dollars, after all—who would turn that down?
He brought the notes up to his nose and gave them a dramatic sniff, then ran his hands over them a few times. With a satisfied grin, Tom said, "Alright. I'll prepare the documents, including the car's title transfer. You can pick them up the next time you're in town. If you're in a hurry, give me at least three days."
"No rush. I won't be back for a week. Is that money enough?"
"It's enough, boss." Tom gave it a quick mental calculation, then added with a more serious tone, "Now it's my turn to ask a question. Henry what?"
"What?" Henry looked at him, puzzled.
"Your last name. Your documents can't just say 'Henry.' That'll look suspicious, even if no one checks closely."
That was a fair point.
The issue of a surname was back on the table. What name should he use? Kent? Wayne? El? Krypton? The one the Russians gave him—Ennuno Owen? Or should he just keep it simple and go with Owen?
After a brief pause to consider, Henry replied, "Henry Brown."
That was Old John's last name. The first person to show him kindness after arriving in this world. Borrowing his name shouldn't be a problem—Henry wasn't planning to become his godson or anything. Besides, it wasn't some noble name with a title to inherit.
"Is that okay?" he asked.
"Of course, boss. Even if you wanted to be called Charlie Brown and raise a dog, I wouldn't mind." Tom laughed.
"Then it's settled. See you in a week." Henry picked up his backpack, ready to leave.
Tom had been about to just wave goodbye from his seat, but then something seemed to occur to him. He got up, found an empty cardboard box, and followed Henry outside.
"What's wrong?" Henry asked again.
"I'm gonna clear out the trash and some personal stuff from the car. You don't want to find anything weird in there. Better I take them away now."
"Alright." Henry understood that when it came to freebies, there was always some 'trash' included. He just needed a car—not any surprises left behind.
Tom really did clean out a lot of "trash." Among the items removed were condoms—both used and unused—a Coca-Cola can wedged under the seat, some loose bottle caps, random coins, and more.
The most notable item was a short-barreled revolver found in the passenger compartment. Oiled and polished, it had clearly been well-maintained.
While taking the revolver, Tom casually mentioned, "Alaska doesn't require a concealed carry permit. You just need to register the purchase when you buy a gun—it helps the cops track things. So if you don't get a gun permit, just remember I did my part. It's just that you can't get one here."
Henry wasn't planning to use a gun anyway. He took the comment lightly and replied, "It's fine, I won't need it."
"Friendly advice, though—if you're going to drive around Alaska, you should at least get a shotgun. That way, if you run into a bear, you won't have to wrestle it barehanded."
As he was about to open the driver's side door, Henry paused and turned back. "Bears? Are there really that many?"
"You'll run into them when you're unlucky. And the thing about luck? No one knows when it runs out."
Henry considered that. He wasn't afraid of bears—even on Earth. His question was more about the practical matters, like bear paws and bile. He waved dismissively. "Got it."
He got in the car.
Just as Henry was about to pull away, Tom flagged him down one last time. He motioned for him to roll down the window, then handed him a worn road atlas. "It's old, but Alaska hasn't changed much over the decades. You'll be able to use it."
"Thanks."
Henry placed the atlas on the passenger seat for easy access and drove off.
He had learned to drive a manual transmission car before his transmigration but never had the money to buy one. Even though decades had passed, and his skills had grown rusty, his superhuman senses and enhanced brain made driving easy.
The engine started smoothly. The well-maintained old car purred to life.
As for spatial awareness—something many drivers struggled with—it was a non-issue for him. Given the wide roads in America, especially in Alaska, there weren't many cars to crash into. The odds of him accidentally hitting something were incredibly low.
Before heading back to Old John's bar, Henry made a stop in town to buy supplies.
He went to a general store run by an elderly couple. They sold a bit of everything—clothes, lawnmowers, Coca-Cola, even pesticides like parathion. The selection was limited, but the basics were all there.
Only the old woman was tending the store today. When she saw Henry enter, she greeted him warmly. "Oh, young man, you're back! Was the trip worthwhile?"
"The captain made a decent haul, so we got a nice reward." Henry replied plainly.
His response wasn't boastful or false. Everyone knew he was a newcomer. He couldn't possibly claim a big share. But returning alive already made him luckier than most.
The old woman nodded approvingly. "Take whatever you need. I'll give you a 20% discount. Consider it a gift. Old John's been talking about you these past few days. Go back and let him know you're safe."
"I will." Henry quickly picked out several sets of clothes and underwear, then added snacks and some frozen food from the freezer section. He felt guilty for constantly eating Old John's supplies.
He wanted to bring back a gift, but Old John didn't care for sentimental souvenirs. As for what the bar might need, there wasn't anything broken or missing.
Don't assume an old man living alone is careless or untidy. With his strong hands-on abilities, Old John ensured everything was in order. Nothing was broken, nothing unnecessary.
Henry, who had also experienced life alone, understood this well. Giving gifts to such people—especially things they didn't need—would just seem intrusive and take up space.
As for what kind of gift would actually be suitable, even asking Old John directly probably wouldn't yield an answer. So Henry decided not to overthink it.
Men don't get sentimental over small rituals.
What might stir genuine emotion would be a long-legged woman seen roadside, a stick picked up for no reason, or a meme passed around by some fool.
Considering Old John's background, maybe helping him kidnap a Japanese soldier or a Nazi would earn more gratitude.
Henry chuckled at the thought as he finished shopping.
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