Garret woke up the next morning with a dull throb behind his eyes and a mouth that tasted like old socks. The straw mattress poked him in places his old body never complained about, but at least the hangover wasn't as brutal as it used to be. This new frame handled booze better. Or maybe he just hadn't pushed it hard enough yet.
He rolled out of bed, scratched his stomach — still soft, but flatter than before — and shuffled outside to splash water on his face from the rain barrel. The two suns were already climbing, painting the fields in warm gold and faint orange. His fields. Sort of.
"Alright, Garret Mole," he muttered, staring at the half-weedy rows of what looked like wheat or barley or some fantasy knock-off. "Time to pretend you know what you're doing."
He grabbed a hoe from beside the house. The handle felt familiar in his calloused palms, like the body had swung it a thousand times. His arms moved smooth, muscles remembering the rhythm even if his brain didn't. He started chopping at the weeds, grunting with each swing. Sweat beaded on his forehead quicker than expected, but it wasn't the gasping, knee-buckling effort he remembered from his old life. This body was built for this crap.
Half an hour in, his back started complaining. He leaned on the hoe and wiped his face with his sleeve.
"Not bad," he admitted to nobody. "Could get used to this. Less gut getting in the way."
A deep voice rumbled from the neighboring field. "Mornin', Garret."
Dov lumbered over the low stone wall separating their properties, big as a barn door and twice as calm. The man had shoulders like boulders and a face that looked permanently half-asleep. A shaggy dog trotted at his heels.
"Dog's on your land again," Dov said, nodding at the mutt sniffing around Garret's chicken coop.
"Yeah, noticed." Garret gave the dog a half-hearted nudge with his boot. It wagged its tail like they were old pals. "Keep meaning to build that fence higher. Keep forgetting."
Dov chuckled, slow and easy. "No rush. He likes your place better. Says the scraps are tastier."
Garret snorted. "Tell him to earn his keep and chase off the crows instead of begging."
They stood in comfortable silence for a minute, watching the fields. Dov scratched his beard. "Crops look decent this year. Rain's been kind. You thinking of taking some to market next week?"
"Enough to buy decent ale," Garret said. "Rest can rot for all I care."
Dov gave him that slow, knowing look. "You always say that. Then you end up helping old Marta with her roof or hauling water for Petra when the well runs low."
"Coincidence," Garret grunted, going back to weeding. "Don't read into it."
The big man just nodded, whistled for his dog, and headed back to his own work. "Holler if you need a hand with the plow. Wife made extra bread. I'll send one of the kids over later."
"Appreciate it," Garret called after him. He meant it, mostly. Free bread was free bread.
By midday the sun was beating down hard. Garret's shirt stuck to his back, and his scar itched from the sweat. He straightened up, rolled his shoulders, and decided that was enough farming for one day. Minimum effort, remember?
He headed inside, found a chunk of hard cheese and some stale bread, and washed it down with the last of yesterday's weak ale. Sitting on the porch, he poked at his face again, tracing the jagged scar.
"Wonder how this ugly mug got it," he mumbled. Flashes of old memories that weren't his flickered — a drunken night, a bar brawl, something with claws. He shook it off. "Doesn't matter. Still breathing. That's an upgrade."
A familiar energetic voice cut through the quiet afternoon.
"Mister Garret! You're done already?"
Pip came jogging up the path again, wooden sword at her hip and a determined bounce in her step. Behind her trailed a shorter woman with sharp features and tired eyes — Petra, the village healer. Dark hair shot with early gray, apron stained with herbs.
Pip waved like they hadn't seen each other yesterday. "I told Mama you were teaching me today! She said I could come if I helped with chores first."
Petra gave Garret a long-suffering look. "He's not teaching you anything dangerous, Pippa. Garret, if he fills her head with nonsense about charging monsters head-on, I'm holding you responsible."
Garret raised his hands in mock surrender. "Lady, I've been trying to talk her out of it since yesterday. Kid's got rocks in her ears."
Petra's mouth twitched like she wanted to smile but was too busy being exhausted. "That sounds about right. How's that cut on your arm healing? The one from last week's wild dog pack?"
"Fine," Garret said, flexing the arm in question. A thin white line was already fading. This body healed quick. Handy. "Your poultice worked. Smelled like death, but it worked."
"Good. Don't go making more work for me." Petra glanced at his half-tended fields and sighed. "You really should weed more often. The borderlands are bad enough without letting the wild growth invite monsters closer."
"Monsters can have the weeds," Garret replied. "I'll take the ale money instead."
Pip laughed. "You're so lazy! But that's why you're the best. Lazy people figure out the smart ways to do things. Like how you scared off those goblins with just rocks and yelling."
Petra shook her head. "Don't encourage her, Garret."
A fox-eared woman with rust-orange markings on her cheeks strolled by on the main path, leading a small cart. Yissa, the merchant. Her tail swished elegantly as she spotted them.
"Garret! Still alive and drinking, I see," she called, copper eyes sparkling with amusement. "Got some fresh spices from the south if you're tired of that terrible home brew. And a new batch of that strong stuff Bram likes."
Garret perked up. "How much for a jug?"
"Depends how nicely you ask," Yissa teased, stopping the cart. "And if you stop by my stall later. I hear you owe Old Henk a rematch at arm-wrestling. He's still sore about losing his title."
"Tell Henk he can keep the title if he buys the first round," Garret shot back.
Pip bounced on her toes. "Miss Yissa, do you have any adventure gear? Like real swords or maps of the wastes?"
Yissa chuckled, tail flicking. "Adventure gear costs real coin, little one. Stick to training with sticks until you've got some. Or listen to Garret — he's survived this long doing the bare minimum."
"See?" Garret said to Pip. "Even the fox lady gets it."
Petra crossed her arms. "Bare minimum gets people killed out here eventually. But I suppose it's better than rushing off to chase glory like half the young fools who pass through."
A distant roar echoed from the treeline — low and rumbling, nothing friendly. Everyone paused for a second.
Garret took another bite of bread. "Not today."
Petra gave him a flat stare. "One of these days it'll be today, Garret Mole."
"Then I'll deal with it when it gets here," he said, standing up and stretching. His back popped satisfyingly. "Right now I've got weeds to half-finish and a tavern stool with my name on it."
Pip grinned up at him. "Can I come? I'll carry your hoe back or something!"
Petra sighed. "Just don't let her swing that sword near anybody."
As the two women headed off — Petra back toward her clinic, Yissa continuing her rounds — Garret watched them go. The village felt... alive. Messy. Full of people who somehow tolerated his grumpy ass.
He picked up the hoe again, gave one more half-hearted swing at a weed, then set it aside.
"Enough for today," he told the empty yard. "Body's adjusting fine. Ale's decent. People are alright. Could be worse."
Another faint howl drifted on the wind.
Garret scratched his scar and headed toward Bram's tavern instead.
"Not my problem," he muttered. "Not yet, anyway."
End of Chapter 3