"Toss me the damned ball!"
The shout burst through the air like a firecracker. A small boy sprinted across the dusty field, his bare feet kicking up little clouds of red earth. "You've been scoring since the start of the match—give me a chance to score too!"
His name was Zit.
Everyone knew him. Everyone liked him. He was quick to laugh, loud when he talked, and dramatic in the way only children could be. There was nothing strange about him — at least, not to anyone else.
But from under the shade of the crooked tree at the edge of the field, a boy watched him with quiet amusement.
He wasn't mocking. Not exactly. It was just a habit — to find something funny in almost everything. People scolded him for it sometimes, saying he didn't take things seriously enough. Maybe they were right. But life seemed too short to frown at what could make you smile.
So when Zit tripped, rolled, and popped back up like nothing happened, the boy under the tree chuckled softly to himself.
The ball bounced across the field again, chased by dusty feet and laughter that rose and fell like waves. Zit's voice carried above the others, eager and impatient, a spark that refused to die even when the sun beat hard against his neck.
The watcher tilted his head, resting one arm on a bent knee. There was something magnetic about the chaos of it all — the running, shouting, and exaggerated triumph. It wasn't the game that entertained him; it was the people.
"Pass it, Zit!" one of the boys yelled.
Zit ignored him, darting toward the goal with his tongue poking out in concentration. The ball slipped under another boy's foot, rolled crookedly, and hit a rock before bouncing off into the grass. Zit stumbled after it, still shouting.
The boy under the tree grinned. "Persistent little thing," he muttered, brushing a fly from his arm.
The heat pressed down, thick and heavy. From a distance came the faint hum of a generator and the caw of a restless crow perched on a nearby fence post. The scent of smoke drifted through the air — someone burning trash again.
Zit finally managed to kick the ball into the crude goal made from sticks and stones. He threw both arms up in triumph, grinning so wide it nearly split his face. The others groaned in defeat.
"Ha! Told you I could score!" Zit yelled, his laughter booming across the field.
The boy beneath the tree just shook his head and laughed quietly. Somehow, Zit's joy was more entertaining than the game itself.