"Hurry up, will you? What's taking so long to check out? Who would even want to steal the junky furniture in your hotel?"
At the front desk, Link was impatiently urging the staff.
"Sir, after inspection… you wet the bed. We'll be withholding your deposit as a cleaning fee."
Behind the counter, a plump Black woman hung up the phone and delivered the line with a deadpan expression.
Swish!More than a dozen guests waiting to check out at the front desk all turned to look at Link in unison.Their eyes gleamed with mockery and amusement, and a few even chuckled.
Swish!A reddish flush spread across Link's pale face—equal parts fever and humiliation.
"That's nonsense! You're framing me. I'm a 20-year-old man. How could I possibly wet the bed? Does that sound even remotely believable?"
Link protested indignantly.
Swish!Some of the other guests nodded in agreement.A guy in his twenties wetting the bed? That did sound suspicious.
Could the hotel be using this kind of trick to cheat people out of their deposits?
Their skeptical gazes now turned to the Black woman behind the counter.
She remained calm, rolled her eyes, and said lazily:
"Sir, there's a big dried stain on the blanket. It sure as hell ain't milk. Want me to have my colleague bring it down for inspection?"
Swish!Link's face turned crimson.
He clenched his fists and pounded on the counter.
Swish!Everyone's eyes were back on him again.
A few women shamelessly glanced at his lower body, while several men burst out laughing.
Their expressions were full of ridicule, amusement… even contempt.
Link clenched his fists tighter, banging the counter again.
"Ma'am, this is unfair. How could I control something like a wet dream? That's like expecting women to control when their period comes. You should understand that, as a fellow human being.
Instead of mocking me, you should sympathize.
Besides, if cleaning is necessary, why should I pay extra?
If any of these people here accidentally left any stains during their stay, would you keep their deposits too?
Is that reasonable?"
The crowd nodded thoughtfully.
More people began eyeing the clerk with doubt. Some even whispered to each other about changing hotels.
"And let me add something, ma'am—your hotel rooms are colder than a corpse. That's how I ended up sick and feverish in the first place."
"…Fine, sir. You win."
The Black woman rolled her eyes again and slapped a $10 bill on the counter.
"Ma'am, I'm not really concerned about the money.
It's just that your handling of this situation was unreasonable.
I'm someone who values logic and fairness.
Anyway, have a nice day."
Link collected the $10—which was rightfully his—nodded politely at the lady and the crowd, then slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked out of the hotel with long strides.
Every morning, there was a tourist bus that departed from Park City to Salt Lake City, Utah's capital.The ticket cost just $8.
Other buses charged $20 or more, which Link couldn't afford.
He had to catch that specific one—Otherwise, he'd be walking back to Los Angeles.
While waiting at the bus stop, Link noticed a group of well-dressed men exiting the Hilton Hotel across the street.
At the center was a chubby man in a black wool suit—Short and stout, in his 40s, with a round face, double chin, and a massive belly held in by an Hermès belt.
The belt wrapped around him like an elastic band on an over-inflated balloon, and as he walked, Link imagined he could hear it squeaking under pressure.
The man gestured confidently while speaking, clearly the center of attention.Everyone around him leaned in, listening intently—afraid to miss a single word.
Only one person looked relaxed.
A man over 190cm tall (6'3"), with messy curls, and a long, awkward face shaped like a pork chop.His jutting chin curled slightly upward, like a bent banana.Combined with his rugged features, he looked both menacing and ridiculous.
That man was none other than Quentin Tarantino, the breakout star of this year's Sundance Film Festival, known for his film Reservoir Dogs.
And the toad-like man next to him?
The powerful executive of the indie film world—Harvey Weinstein, president of Miramax Films.
Rumor had it, Weinstein had taken a liking to Reservoir Dogsduring its Sundance premiere, and they were now likely discussing distribution.
"Hey, Quentin!"
Link shouted across the road.
He knew Quentin.Before Sundance, they both lived in the same youth apartment complex in West Hollywood, albeit in different buildings.
Over the past few months, they'd run into each other a few times.They weren't close, but were familiar faces.
After arriving in Park City, Link had watched Reservoir Dogs, and Quentin had also seen Buried.
But once Quentin's film exploded in popularity, he became swamped with meetings, and the two hadn't had a chance to talk again.
"Hey, Link!"
Quentin waved back warmly.
Before Link could say anything else, a black stretch Lincoln pulled up.Quentin followed Weinstein into the car.
The Lincoln's smooth silhouette glided down the street and disappeared into the cold, empty roads of Park City.
A gust of icy wind blew through.
Just then, the bus arrived.
Link rode to the Park City Bus Station, then by early afternoon caught the tourist bus to Salt Lake City.
From there, he'd take a train to Los Angeles, located on the West Coast.
Utah, situated in the American West, is largely made up of high-altitude regions in the Rocky Mountains and Colorado Plateau.
In January and February, temperatures often hover around -3°C (26°F).
The mountain areas are blanketed in snow and battered by icy winds.
Every winter, American middle-class families come here to ski and vacation.
Park City, home of the Sundance Film Festival, is one of Utah's top tourist towns.
But for someone broke like Link, it felt like hell.
As the train moved south, passing through Nevada and into California, warm sunlight streamed in through the window.
Link shivered slightly and slowly woke from a nap.
Outside, the sky was a brilliant blue, and colorful birds soared across it.
The golden sunlight bathed the mountains of Providence.
The slopes were lush and green, bursting with blooming flowers.
Southern California, with its Mediterranean climate, had hot, dry summers and mild, rainy winters, with average temperatures between 18–30°C (64–86°F).
Almost any kind of plant could take root and thrive here.
Here, you wouldn't freeze to death—but if you wanted to eat well, live well, and maintain dignity, it was still a brutally hard life, just like anywhere else.
Just then, someone nudged him.
"Hey, man. You're finally awake.
Someone stole your backpack."