His shovel struck stone with a dull clang, and the sound bounced off the half-built flyover like a coin dropped into a well. Dust leapt up, coated his lips, and turned his breath visible. He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist, leaving a pale crescent where sweat briefly won against grit.

“Boss, another one,” the boy behind him called, holding out a length of rebar.

The man—everyone called him Pak Din—didn’t look up. He squinted at the trench as if it might lie. Then he drove the shovel again, shoulders tightening beneath a thin, sun-faded shirt. Above, traffic screamed past, air-conditioned and indifferent. Below, the sun pressed heat into exposed skin the way a thumb presses wax into a seal.

On the fence, a banner flapped: FUTURE READY. The words were bright, confident, almost rude. Pak Din’s boots were split at the toes. When he shifted his weight, sand slipped in, and he didn’t flinch.