It is grunt work, but Jorge doesn’t make a peep. Doesn’t even sweat by the look of it. Industrial logic reveals itself through repetition, and within a minute Henry and Jorge are a two-man disassembly line, having wordlessly fallen into a mindless, muscle-searing rhythm. First Henry slams the sledge into the asphalt, hobbles a foot back, then swings again, leaving a web of fissures and craters through which Jorge spears the pick-axe then pries loose, so that the fat man in the skid loader can scoop all the slabs and rubble into its bucket and over to the dump truck.

Now that he and Jorge are working totally in sync, a sirloin pendulum, it’s too easy for his worries to frolic and mosh unchecked. He drowns out Junior’s feverish whimpers and his own impending job interview blunders by focusing on the minutiae of this back-breaking procedure. Each rotation begins by dipping into a slight squat that simultaneously lowers the hammerhead like a cocked catapult and generates the force that now presses from heels to toes then extends his knees and blasts through his hips and spine, as his arms begin heaving the sledgehammer up from behind him, arcing over his shoulders and head, and as it reaches its apex and curves into its descent, his right hand slides down the handle to meet the left, and together they give a final tug to drive the hammerhead faster and harder than a freefall, until—thock.

It reminds him of that carnival game where you hammer a lever in order to ding a bell at the top of a plywood pillar. Soon he’s thinking about games, youth, Junior, and he clamps down a wheeze and swings even harder.

Thock.

The diesel fumes and limestone dust steep into a sepia filter over the driveway. Amid the amber haze, something is twinkling. A Ferris wheel’s lights. There’s the peppermint swirl of a circus tent. Rows of stalls selling rigged games and deep-fried treats, and here comes Junior, a tuft of cotton candy blocking his face from view. Beneath the sugary cloud, the stick starts stretching, growing so heavy that Junior has to support it with both hands. He grimaces, struggling. Next the fluff starts congealing, condensing in on itself until it’s a stout, solid cylinder—a hammerhead. The boy looks solemn, resigned, as if dealt a sentence he doesn’t deserve but can’t contest. In his hands, the sledgehammer is so oversized that it’s clownish, except there’s nothing funny about how it’s tugging the boy down to the ground.