Chapter 2: Rebirth

"Where am I?"

Yang Liansheng lay on the bed, glancing left and right. It was clearly a hospital. Beside the bed stood a ventilator and various pieces of equipment he could not identify. Above him was the ceiling, and on three sides—left, right, and front—hung cyan curtains, drawn shut to form a private cubicle.

His left hand was cuffed to the side rail of the bed, and an IV line was taped to his right arm. Judging by the fluid bag, it wasn't blood; it looked like glucose or something similar, he guessed. The labels were all in English and printed in such small text that he couldn't make them out.

It was very quiet; there didn't seem to be anyone outside the curtains. Something felt wrong. Yang Liansheng gave his left hand a tug, feeling the tension of the handcuffs, and stared at the ceiling lights, trying to piece together the events of the last two days.

...

Two days ago, his soul had just passed through the portal. He could still clearly remember the person who had burned incense to send them off, and the sequence of events from when his soul drifted out of the hospital to being assigned this transmigration.

After passing through a void, he had regained consciousness to find himself lying inside a dilapidated tent, covered by a quilt and fully clothed. He sat up, unzipped the tent flap, opened the curtain, and poked his head out to survey his surroundings.

It must have been early morning. The temperature was low and the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. His location appeared to be under an overpass, as he could hear the rumble of vehicles passing overhead. Nearby were several other equally ragged tents, with a few disheveled-looking people scattered about—whites, Latinos. Had he been reborn abroad?

Certain that he was safe for the moment, he retreated into the tent, zipped it shut, and began to inventory his surroundings.

There was no sleeping bag. Beneath him was a piece of cardboard covered with a few English newspapers and a dirty, worn-out quilt. He was wearing a t-shirt, a hoodie, and jeans. A pair of sneakers sat by the bedside. The clothes and shoes likely hadn't been washed in days; there was an unpleasant odor, though he couldn't tell if it came from the quilt or his own body, which hadn't been washed in quite some time.

On his left wrist was a red-corded wooden bead bracelet. The beads were dark red—twelve small ones and one large one in the center. The word "Liansheng" was carved into the beads; "Lian" was in simplified characters. He didn't know what kind of wood it was, but it looked aged, polished to a dull sheen by years of wear.

Next to his cardboard pillow was a heavily worn backpack, its straps frayed and pilling. The bag was covered in dust; its original color was likely black, but it now appeared a mottled, grayish-black. Opening it, he found a jacket, another hoodie, two t-shirts, and a pair of jeans. In the inner pocket were a few pairs of underwear, and in a side compartment, some socks—none of them new.

In the outer pocket, he found a wallet and a flashlight. Inside the wallet were a driver’s license, a few coupons, and some cash. He wasn't familiar with foreign currency, but a closer look revealed them to be US dollars. He counted twenty-three dollars in total, plus a few coins in the side pocket.

The driver’s license indicated California. The photo was of a young Asian man—himself, presumably. Without a mirror, he couldn't be certain. The name read "Jimmy Yang," born 02/07/1980. He didn't know the current date, so he couldn't determine his exact age yet. The address was on Green Street in San Francisco; he had no idea where that was, and for now, it didn't matter.

He organized his belongings. There was no phone, no electronic device, not even a radio. His path to gathering information from his immediate surroundings had been severed.

...

Having just been reborn, he wasn't quite used to the English name "Jimmy Yang." Since the bracelet had the characters "Liansheng" on it, he decided to use that as his Chinese name for the time being.

Yang Liansheng figured that by being reborn, he had inherited the abilities of this body. His English reading comprehension was basically at a fluent level—a conclusion he drew from being able to understand the information on the license. He just wasn't sure if he could speak it as well as he could read it. Until he was certain of his safety, it was best not to interact with anyone.

Yang Liansheng packed his things away, lay back down, and stared at the roof of the tent, contemplating his next move.

He had an identity, at least. Even if he looked like a homeless man, he wasn't undocumented—though he wondered if he had a criminal record. California appeared in countless movies. Even though he had been a firefighter in his past life and hadn't had the chance to travel abroad, he had seen enough films and read enough online to know that California was prosperous. Even with limited knowledge, names like Los Angeles, San Francisco, Long Beach, Malibu, and Hollywood were familiar. He would be able to find a suitable career eventually; he couldn't remain a vagrant forever.

In any case, his first priority was to get a newspaper to confirm the date and a map to confirm his location. He also needed to find a place to wash up and change his clothes.

Yang Liansheng sat up, unzipped the tent, put on his shoes, shouldered his backpack, pulled up the hood of his hoodie, and stepped out. He glanced back once to memorize the color of his tent, then turned and walked toward a distant gas station.