The world was a prairie of smithereens stretching to the curve of the earth

IT

was hot.

So, so hot.

Perspiration dripped from his nose. Yosef focused on inhaling. In (and out) and in (and out) and in. He swiped a raw hand across the bridge of his nose, flicking dried mud into his eye. Grimacing, he wiped his fingers on his shirtfront and pinched the eye shut until it watered. The dirt cleared.

“Hey!” Lucas yelled from somewhere to his left. “No slacking! Get on it, Softy!”

“Softy’s crying,” another boy informed Lucas contemptuously.

Ignoring them, Yosef hefted his spade again. The shaft caught on a blister between his thumb and forefinger. He breathed in sharply. Everything ached; his shoulders and neck pulsed and the spot behind his eyes throbbed. The scrap of moistened cotton tied over his mouth and nose smelled.

And it was hot. So very hot.

Slower now, but still as fast as he could, Yosef worked. In and out and in and out and in. The air hung granular over his head, trapping the sun swirling through the murk and heating the atmosphere unbearably.

“Why are you still breaking it up? You should be clearing already, there’s even a wheelbarrow ready.” The boy next to him, wild-haired and scornful, flung another chunk of smashed concrete into his own “wheelbarrow,” a haphazard construction of wood splints with no wheels to its name.

Yosef intended to ignore him, his regular strategy, but the boy — Reggie? — seemed to be in a particularly foul mood. “Why don’t you answer, hey?” he egged. “I ain’t good enough for talkin’ to, hey?”

“I was — a student — before,” Yosef tried to answer. “I’m not — used to — physical labor.”

“Leave him,” someone said from behind. Yosef looked over his shoulder, wincing. He’d seen the young man before, in the shack and near the pond. Slim, sunburned, coppery hair. “Take it out on the concrete, Reg.”

Reggie snorted and turned away, muttering, and the young man moved alongside Yosef and began thwacking at the concrete in front of them.

“Leave it,” Yosef said wearily, “you’ve got your own to finish. This is my quota.”

“Don’t worry about me,” the young man said, swinging his spade down again and grimacing as it made contact, the force rebounding on him. “I’m Miles, by the way.”

“Yosef.”

“I’d shake your hand but my guess is your blisters are as bad as mine,” Miles said. Yosef cracked a small smile.

“I heard you say you were a student,” Miles continued, lowering his tone and glancing in Reggie’s direction. “Me too. But there’s no need to tell the others. They’re farm boys, suspicious of educated folks. And it’d do you good to blend in more.”

Yosef swung his spade up, down. How to explain to Miles that he wasn’t trying to be antisocial? That the coarse speech of the other boys repulsed him and their crude morality actually scared him? Suddenly, he saw them juxtaposed with Azriel and Shimmy and the crowd from yeshivah, and a lump formed in his throat.

Ribbono shel Olam… !

“Hey, I know it’s hard.” Miles rested his spade and put a hand on Yosef’s shoulder.

Yosef gave a half-smile. “It’s nothing.”

Miles grinned and flung his spade at the concrete again. “Let’s get this done.”