Chapter 1: Waking Up Hungry

“Hey, boss, you awake?”

A middle-aged man in worn-out jeans and a faded flannel shirt looked at me, his face tight with worry. He rubbed his palms together, grease and dust ground into the cracks—like he’d just come off a double shift at the garage. The lantern glow deepened the lines around his eyes, making him look older than he probably was, the kind of guy who’d seen too many sunrises from the wrong side of a truck stop diner.

I blinked, disoriented, glancing around. I was inside a battered camping tent, dimly lit by the flicker of a cheap battery lantern. The tent smelled like mildew and stale sweat, that familiar tang of too many nights outdoors, and somewhere in the background, crickets sang their low chorus. A cold breeze slipped through the thin nylon wall, making me shiver.

Suddenly, a system interface called “Buffet” popped up in my mind: free $2.99 standard meal, all you can eat. Yeah right, like anything’s ever actually all you can eat for free.

The options were:

Combo A: one big meat entrée, three veggie sides.

Combo B: two small meat entrées, two veggie sides.

Combo C: one small meat entrée, three veggie sides, and a can of Coke.

Just as I was wondering what kind of scammy app this was, the middle-aged man spoke again: “Boss, you suddenly passed out on the road. No one in our group knows first aid. You’ve been out for a day and a night. Everyone was freaking out, but we didn’t expect you’d finally wake up tonight.”

His voice quivered on the word “freaking,” and I caught the worry in his eyes. He looked like the type who might’ve patched up an old Chevy with duct tape, but who’d freeze if someone had a real emergency. Still, the fact that I’d been out for over twenty-four hours made my stomach twist with unease.

“Where am I? Where are we headed?”

“Road crew, boss. You’re the one in charge.”

“What? Road crew?” My jaw dropped. Did I seriously get isekai’d? I pinched my arm. Nope, not dreaming. Somewhere, my phone was probably blowing up with work emails I’d never answer.

My mind spun, searching for some rational explanation, but I kept coming back to the surreal fact that I wasn’t at home in my apartment. No familiar hum of the fridge, no sirens in the distance—just this weird twilight between a memory and a roadside job.

After another half hour of questions, I finally pieced it together. I was now the crew chief of a county work gang in rural Ohio. On orders from my supervisor, I was to lead fifty people from the county to help build a memorial site. The middle-aged man next to me was my right-hand guy, Dale.

Hearing the words “rural Ohio” snapped things into focus a bit—the landscape of rolling fields, rusted tractors, the ghosts of shuttered factories. The air smelled faintly of cut hay and diesel, the kind of scent that sticks to your clothes after a day in the fields. It was the kind of place where everyone knew the sheriff’s name, and football on Friday night was the only show in town. I tried to recall what little I knew about the area; mostly cornfields, stubborn old-timers, and winters that would chill you to the bone.

Seeing my dazed look, Dale grew anxious: “Boss, want me to get you something to eat?”

He spoke soft, like he was asking if I wanted seconds at a church potluck—hoping I’d say yes, but too polite to push.

I snapped back to reality. I was actually kind of hungry.

My stomach growled, making me acutely aware of just how long it’d been since my last real meal. Hunger had a way of cutting through existential confusion.

I nodded, and Dale ducked out of the tent.

I listened to the crunch of gravel beneath his boots and the soft slap of canvas as the tent flap fell shut behind him. In the stillness, I could hear someone coughing outside, and the faint twang of a harmonica from another tent down the line. Rural nights were quiet, but not silent—there was always the background hum of bugs and the distant bark of a stray dog.

Soon, he returned holding two rock-hard cornbread biscuits and handed them to me.

The biscuits looked like they could chip a tooth. They smelled faintly of old cornmeal, the kind you’d find in a gas station convenience store, long past its expiration date. Dale’s calloused hands shook a little as he offered them up.

“What’s this?” I stared at the so-called food in my hand, confused.

“Mixed grain biscuits. After more than ten days on the road, we’re almost out of food. I stashed these two away. Tomorrow, when we get to the site, we can restock.”

Dale’s eyes darted nervously, like he wasn’t sure if I’d thank him or throw the biscuits back in his face. The way he stood there, I could tell he was used to rationing, maybe even going hungry more often than not.

I thought to myself, though these biscuits looked rough, at least they were all-natural. I took a bite.

The first crunch felt like biting into a brick. My jaw ached, and I had to work the dry crumbs around my mouth before they softened. I tried to guess the grains—corn, rye, maybe a hint of buckwheat?—but the bitterness was unmistakable, something wild and unrefined. Still, the more I chewed, the less bad it tasted. The hunger was winning out over my taste buds. Just murder on the teeth. I tried not to make a face, but Dale was watching, and I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

I flexed my jaw, wondering if dental insurance from another universe would cover cracked molars. My stomach, however, didn’t care about dental plans.

Fun to try once, but I probably couldn’t eat this for long.

Still, a little gratitude was in order. In a pinch, food is food. I gave Dale a nod, trying to show appreciation, even if my face was twisted up from the taste.

As I was chewing, I noticed Dale watching me, Adam’s apple bobbing.

His eyes followed every bite, like a stray dog watching someone eat a cheeseburger. It dawned on me he probably hadn’t eaten much either.

“Dale, why aren’t you eating?”

Dale gave a sheepish smile: “Boss, you eat. I’m not hungry.”

He rubbed his hands together, looking everywhere but at the biscuits. The lie was transparent, and the hollowness in his cheeks gave him away. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and I caught him glancing at the crumbs on my shirt.

“You haven’t eaten?”

“It’s fine. I can go a day or two without food.”

His voice tried for casual, but the words hit me in the gut. This was a man who knew real hunger—the kind that haunted you through the night.

What a coincidence, I happened to have a system.