The Work
Voices shouted to each other over the cacophonous roar of machines. Men were operating these machines, guiding them to lift heavy beams or drill holes into the ground. Some were walking miles above the ground on narrow beams. It was difficult to tell from the framework what they were building, but it was bound to be majestic.
"Hey, kid!" August jumped at the voice. One of the workers was waving at him. Cautiously August drew closer so he could hear over all the noise. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm just watching. I didn't mean to get in the way."
"I meant why aren't you in school?"
"I'm home-schooled, sir." August spoke so confidently these days that his lies could barely be distinguished from truth to the untrained ear. "I'm studying urban development and my father wanted me to get some real-life experience."
"Your dad here now?"
"He's over there." August pointed to a man across the street. "The construction noise bothers him." There was a silence as the older man studied August's supposed father.
"Okay, kid. Just stay back and don't distract my workers." August did as he was told. He didn't stay very long, though; his fake father eventually boarded a bus. But he saw just enough to remind him of the joys that came from building.
Several days later at a different site August tried asking for work. Over and over no matter what story he told or what he wore, he was dismissed as too young. He even offered to do things for free and they turned him away. August sat by a pond wondering how he could possibly be too young. He barely recognized his own reflection: a dark-haired boy wearing a button-down shirt and slacks blinked back at him.
Maybe he was trying too hard. The hair dye was for himself, but the rest he thought would make them take him more seriously. All it did so far was make every other kid want to hit him. Yet another lesson to learn about this world.
August found refuge in a playground. He waited for sleep to come but he felt too restless, so he went for a walk back to the construction site. It was quiet; all the machines were still, their operators gone for the evening. August only hesitated for a moment before stepping into the site. Tools familiar and strange called to him.
These aren't yours! Nothing here is yours! The ghost of a voice came back to him. Instinctively he flinched before realizing no blow would come this time. August forced his hand forward to pick up a tool. It was a hammer: its wooden handle felt good in his grip, the metal head an assuring weight. It felt right to hold it. Minutes later he was driving nails into wood and sanding down rough edges.
The adults didn't even notice that some of their work was done for them. August's muscles ached and his hands were blistered from the work, but he never felt better. He started sleeping during the day so he could come back every night. With his help the beams became walls and a roof.
It was so satisfying August almost hated to walk away from it. But there were too many other things to experience. He could always build again another day.