Page 2 of Marked

The mountains loomed behind it all, guardians or gatekeepers, I couldn’t decide which. And there it was again—the tingling on my hip where that mysterious scar served as a constant reminder that something wasn’t quite right with my world. Or maybe with me.

“Just get in, sell the cottage, get out,” I reminded myself, ignoring how the trees seemed to lean in closer, as if listening. “No need to make friends, solve mysteries, or discover any life-changing secrets about my possibly supernatural heritage.”

I pulled into the parking lot of what was apparently Cedar Grove’s answer to Walmart, a grocery store that promised everything from arugula to zip ties. The sun was already kissing the tops of the trees, hinting that I’d be navigating the infamous cottage driveway in twilight if I didn’t hurry. The thought of being caught between town and cottage after dark was enough to make me consider braving the stares for a night at the local inn. But the way the townsfolk looked at me—like I was a new exhibit at the zoo—nixed that idea pretty quickly.

“Alright, Kai,” I muttered, grabbing a cart that wobbled like it had one too many on a Friday night. “You’re a man on a mission. First priority: survival supplies. No idea if that cottageeven has a working fridge, so let’s think apocalypse prep minus the bunker.”

I pulled out my phone and squinted at my hastily made list. Rice—obviously. Vegetables, but only the kind that wouldn’t die in a day. Canned everything, because who knew about electricity? Dry goods, because a man cannot live on rice alone. Snacks—stress eating was definitely in my future. Basic cooking supplies, assuming the kitchen wasn’t from the stone age. Instant coffee, because civilization. Water, lots of it, because plumbing was questionable at best. Basic cleaning supplies. And emergency supplies: flashlights, batteries, first aid kit, because… woods.

“How hard can it be?”

I stood in front of the canned goods aisle, having an existential crisis over soup varieties. “Why didn’t I do this shopping in Seattle? Oh right, because nothing says ‘warm welcome to spoiled food’ like hours of car ride in summer heat.”

“Excuse me,” an elderly woman called out as I zoomed past. “Are you looking for something specific, dear?”

The exit? My dignity? A town with more than one Asian resident?

“Just browsing, thanks!” I called back, noticing how she and her husband had somehow materialized in every aisle I entered. They weren’t even trying to be subtle about their rubbernecking. At this rate, I was going to end up as the star ofSmall Town Shopping Network: The Asian Invasion.

The cart gradually filled with my survival kit: canned soups, beans, tuna, and enough instant noodles to get me through college again. I threw in some pasta and jarred sauce, silently apologizing to my mother’s ghost for the culinary sacrilege I was about to commit.

“Sir?” A teenage stocker watched me load up on instant coffee like I was preparing for the caffeine apocalypse. “We have fresher coffee in—”

“Bold of you to assume that cottage has a coffee maker,” I muttered, grabbing another jar. “Or electricity. Or running water. Or isn’t actually a shed with delusions of grandeur.”

The International Foods aisle was a joke waiting for a punchline. One sad shelf of “ethnic” foods that looked like they’d been curated by someone whose most exotic meal was buttered toast.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” I stared at the selection of soy sauce—exactly one bottle, featuring a label so stereotypical it made me cringe. “What, no fortune cookies to complete the ‘authentic Asian experience’?”

The rice selection was even more tragic. Three lonely bags sat on the shelf, the kind Mom would’ve used as doorstops rather than cook. “Sorry, Mom.” I sighed, hoisting a bag into my cart. “Desperate times call for desperate grains.”

The cleaning supplies aisle became my next victim. “Bleach? Definitely bleach. All-purpose cleaner? The more purposes the better. Air freshener? Because what’s a potentially haunted cottage without the artificial scent of Summer Breeze?”

In the toiletries section, I had another moment of clarity. “Toilet paper. Oh God, please let there be a working bathroom.” The twelve-pack looked pathetically small, so I grabbed the twenty-four-pack. Then another. I’ve seen horror movies—no one ever thinks about toilet paper until it’s too late.

The snack aisle was my salvation. “Hello, stress eating, my old friend.” Chips, cookies, and enough candy to give my dentist nightmares joined the pile. “Don’t judge me,” I told my cart. “You try facing unknown woods without emotional support chocolate.”

The produce section required strategic thinking. “Okay, what won’t die in a day? Potatoes? You’re in. Onions and garlic? Welcome aboard. Carrots and sweet potatoes? You look sturdy enough.” I eyed the leafy greens with regret. “Sorry, bok choy. It’s not you, it’s my questionable refrigeration situation.”

At least the local produce looked suspiciously fresh. Farm-to-table was apparently alive and well in Cedar Grove, even if authentic Asian ingredients had yet to make it past the town limits.

“Flashlights,” I muttered, wheeling toward hardware. “Batteries. First aid kit because, knowing my luck, I’ll probably need it. Matches. Candles. Is this a survival shopping spree or am I accidentally planning a séance?”

Approaching the checkout felt like the walk of shame after an apocalypse preparation spree. My cart looked like anxiety had gone shopping with a credit card. The wobbling wheel, which had been my constant companion through this ordeal, chose this moment to stage its final protest by getting stuck sideways.

“Come on,” I muttered, wrestling with the cart. “Don’t fail me now. We’ve been through so much together.”

The elderly couple who’d been tracking my progress through the store like amateur anthropologists were still watching. They now had front-row seats to my battle with the cart and my questionable life choices piled inside it. I could practically hear their thoughts:Is he moving in or preparing for doomsday?

At the checkout, I was greeted by the epitome of small-town curiosity: a woman whose nametag read Karen. Of course it did. She scanned my items with the efficiency of a sloth on a bad day, her eyes darting between my purchases and my hazel eyes like she was trying to solve a particularly tricky Sudoku puzzle.

“You just passing through?” she asked, her voice dripping with nosiness. “Those eyes are something else—exotic!”

I forced a smile, mentally counting backward from ten. “Just here on business.”

“Oh? Where’re you from originally? You speak English so well!”

Born and raised right here in the good ol’ US of A, Karen, but thanks for the casual racism.

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