With the map folded neatly in his backpack and the quiet hum of the library fading behind him, Mame stepped back into the drizzle.
Hunger hit him all at once.
Not the sharp, desperate kind from the day before, but a steady reminder that his body was still human and still needed maintenance. He headed toward Thriftway, guided by instinct now rather than hesitation. Every turn felt natural, like following a path he had already walked many times in another life.
The grocery store smelled like bread and disinfectant.
Mame grabbed a basket and moved slowly down the aisles, choosing things without overthinking them. Rice. Pasta. Canned soup. Eggs. Fruit that would last. Protein bars. Jerky. Nothing fancy. Food you could rely on.
He paused in front of the freezer section, then added frozen vegetables and a couple of simple meals that only needed heat.
"This is survival shopping," he muttered to himself. "Not comfort shopping."
At checkout, the cashier barely looked twice at him. Forks had that effect. As long as you did not cause trouble, you blended in.
Next came clothing.
A small outdoor store sat a few blocks away, its windows fogged from the inside. Mame lingered briefly before going in, then stepped through the door.
Dark colors first.
Two hoodies in charcoal and deep green. Thick enough to block cold and rain. A few plain shirts. Durable. Neutral. Easy to disappear in. He added sturdy walking shoes with good grip, meant for uneven ground and wet trails.
The last section made him pause.
Training gear.
His eyes settled on weighted straps, the kind used for resistance training. Adjustable. Practical. Discreet under clothing if needed.
He tested the weight in his hands.
"Perfect," he said quietly.
They went into the basket.
Back outside, rain misted his face as he walked. His backpack was heavier now, but the weight felt grounding instead of burdensome.
He ducked into a quiet alley, checked that no one was nearby, and focused.
The system window appeared instantly.
He opened the Shop tab and then the Inventory.
The grid waited.
One by one, he placed items into storage. Groceries stacked neatly into squares. Clothing folded itself into compact icons. The weighted gear slid into place with a soft confirmation pulse.
No noise. No spectacle.
Just organization.
He left out only what he needed immediately. A hoodie. Shoes. A small bag of food.
When he closed the window, the alley felt unchanged, but he felt different.
Prepared.
By the time he headed back toward Charlie's house, his steps were steady, his mind clear. This was not power. This was foundation.
Food. Clothing. Tools.
The basics.
And for the first time since waking up on the road, Mame felt like he was not reacting to events anymore.
He was planning.
Whatever Forks held for him, whatever story was waiting to begin in September, he would meet it on his own terms.
One practical choice at a time.
By the time Mame reached Charlie's house, the drizzle had thickened again, clinging to the trees and gravel driveway like it had no intention of leaving.
He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and locked it behind him out of habit.
The house was quiet.
That still felt strange, but less unsettling than before.
He set his backpack down at the kitchen table and unpacked deliberately. Groceries first. He opened the fridge and freezer, organizing everything carefully. Not because Charlie had rules, but because order helped him think. Cans lined up. Frozen meals stacked neatly. Fruit washed and placed in a bowl on the counter.
When he was done, the kitchen looked lived in again.
Next came his bag.
Mame spread his clothes out on the bed upstairs and rearranged them with quiet efficiency. Hoodies folded tight. Shirts rolled. Socks paired. Shoes placed at the bottom. Everything positioned so that if he needed to leave on short notice, he could.
Not running away.
Just ready.
"That's better," he murmured.
He pulled the weighted straps from his inventory and tested them in his hands. Solid. Adjustable. He fastened them carefully around his arms and legs, tightening them until they added resistance without cutting circulation.
The weight settled in immediately.
He took a few steps.
"Okay," he said, nodding. "That's noticeable."
Before training again, he stopped himself and went back downstairs. Hunger was a quieter voice now, but still present. He made a simple lunch. Rice, eggs, and vegetables. Nothing fancy. Fuel.
He ate at the table, alone but not uncomfortable, chewing slowly and letting the warmth settle into his body.
After lunch, he cleared the dishes and headed back to the garage.
The weights made every movement heavier. Even standing felt deliberate. He started slow. Squats. Push-ups. Light lifting. His muscles complained almost immediately.
Good.
Sweat formed quickly this time. His breathing deepened. Each repetition took effort, focus, intention. He stopped when his form started to slip, resting instead of pushing recklessly.
"This isn't about hurting myself," he reminded his reflection in the garage mirror. "It's about getting better."
When he finished, he leaned against the wall, chest rising and falling steadily.
The Status window flickered faintly into view.
No announcements.
No fanfare.
But something inside him felt steadier than before.
His D ranks were still D ranks.
But they did not feel as limiting now.
Mame removed the weights slowly and sat on the bench, wiping sweat from his face.
"This is going to take time," he said quietly.
He did not mind.
Time was something he finally had.
Outside, the rain continued its soft, endless fall over Forks.
And inside Charlie Swan's garage, Mame began the slow, unremarkable work of becoming someone who could survive what was coming next.
The sound of the front door opening echoed through the house.
Mame paused mid-rep, breath heavy, arms shaking slightly under the added weight. He lowered himself carefully and sat up, wiping sweat from his face just as footsteps approached the garage.
Charlie appeared in the doorway, jacket half-unzipped, eyes taking in the scene.
He sighed. "You eat today?" he asked.
Mame blinked, then smiled. "Yes. Actually."
Charlie raised an eyebrow. "I'm shocked."
"I had lunch," Mame said. "And I did some shopping. Groceries. A few other things."
Charlie frowned slightly. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know," Mame replied. He unstrapped one of the weights and set it aside. "It just makes me feel better if I contribute. Even if it's small stuff."
Charlie watched him for a moment, then nodded once. "Fair enough."
He leaned against the doorframe. "I heard back about your housing situation."
Mame straightened. "And?"
Charlie shook his head. "Nothing available. Not locally. And the system's having trouble with you."
Mame's stomach tightened. "Because I don't have a last name?"
"That's part of it," Charlie said. "But mostly because you're… an anomaly. You exist in the system, but you weren't expected to arrive. No prior placement. No clean record trail."
Mame looked down. "Sorry."
Charlie shook his head immediately. "Not your fault. At all."
That helped more than Mame expected.
Charlie glanced around the garage again, then back at him. "Why don't you shower. We'll have dinner. Tomorrow, maybe we'll get some good news."
Mame nodded. "Okay."
As he stood, muscles sore but steady, he felt the quiet weight of Charlie's words settle in.
An anomaly.
Not lost.
Not unwanted.
Just unexpected.
And for now, that was enough.
Dinner was quieter than usual.
Not awkward, just calm. The kind of quiet that settled in when two people were comfortable enough not to fill every gap with words. Rain tapped against the windows in a steady rhythm, and the house glowed softly under warm yellow light.
Charlie set the plates down and took his usual seat.
Mame ate slowly, savoring the warmth. Soup. Bread. Something simple, filling, grounding. He realized he had started associating meals with safety.
That was new.
Charlie cleared his throat halfway through. "Food's good?"
"Yeah," Mame said. "Really good."
Charlie nodded, satisfied, and went back to eating.
A few minutes passed.
Then Mame spoke again, softer this time. "About the last name."
Charlie looked up but did not interrupt.
"I've been thinking about it more," Mame continued. "Not just because of paperwork. It feels like… it matters."
Charlie set his fork down. "It does."
Mame stared at his plate. "I don't remember my parents' names. I remember that they didn't really use last names. Or maybe they didn't need them. It's fuzzy."
He paused, fingers tightening slightly around the spoon.
"But now I need one," he said. "Not just for the system. For me."
Charlie nodded slowly. "A name sticks. People use it to place you."
"That's what scares me," Mame admitted. "Picking the wrong one feels like lying. Picking nothing feels like hiding."
Charlie considered that. "You don't have to rush it. Fifteen days is still time."
"I know," Mame said. "I just keep thinking that whatever I choose will decide more than just what's on a form."
Charlie studied him carefully. "You don't sound like someone who wants to disappear."
Mame looked up, surprised.
"I don't," he said. "I just don't want to be something I'm not."
Charlie nodded once. "Then pick something honest."
They finished eating after that, the conversation drifting to simpler things. Weather. Town events. Which roads flooded first when it rained hard.
Later, after the dishes were done, Mame stood in the doorway of the spare room, backpack open on the bed. He did not pack it again. He just looked at it.
Names drifted through his thoughts.
Some felt too heavy.Some felt borrowed.Some felt wrong the moment he touched them.
He sat on the bed and closed his eyes.
Not forcing it.Just listening.
Forks.Rain.Roads.Forest.
And somewhere underneath it all, a quiet sense of endurance. Of standing still while the world moved around him. Of being rooted even when he had arrived from nowhere.
"I'll figure it out," he whispered to the empty room.
The system did not respond.
That was fine.
This was not something it could decide for him anyway.
Downstairs, Charlie turned off the lights and locked the door.
And in the quiet house on the edge of Forks, Mame lay back and stared at the ceiling, letting the idea of a name take shape slowly, naturally.
Like everything else worth keeping.