The thing about a barbell is that it's polite.
It's balanced. It has knurling to help you grip it. It sits on a rack, waiting for you to be ready.
A tractor tire is not polite.
It sat in the mud of Givens' Salvage Yard, half-buried in weeds. It was black, dry-rotted, and looked heavy enough to crush a Honda Civic.
"You sure about this, Cooper?"
Mr. Givens stood on the porch of his trailer, a toothpick dancing between his teeth. He was wearing a grease-stained tank top that showed off arms that looked like twisted oak roots.
"I'm sure," I said, pulling on my leather work gloves.
"Suit yourself," Givens spat. "Twenty bucks to move that stack to the back fence. You got four hours before I lock the gate."
I looked at the stack. Five massive tires.
I walked up to the first one. It was lying flat. The problem wasn't just the weight; it was the leverage. There was nothing to grab.
I squatted down, jamming my fingers into the gap between the rubber and the dirt. Spiders scurried out. The smell of hot rubber and wet earth filled my nose.
*Base Strength: 31.*
I gritted my teeth and drove my legs into the ground.
Nothing happened. The tire didn't budge. It felt like I was trying to lift the planet.
"Use your chest, boy!" Givens yelled, laughing. "You lift with your arms, you gonna pop a bicep!"
I let go, breathing hard. My heart hammered against my bruised ribs.
*Think,* I told myself. *Mahomes Template. Physics.*
A tire isn't a deadlift. It's a lever. I didn't need to lift it straight up; I needed to change the angle.
I dug my cleats into the mud. I didn't grab the tire with my hands; I shoved my chest against the tread. I leaned into it at a forty-five-degree angle, making my body a wedge.
"Drive," I hissed.
I pushed. My calves screamed. The "Hardware Bottleneck" warning flickered in my vision, but I ignored it. This wasn't explosive speed; this was grinding torque.
Slowly, agonizingly, the rubber broke suction with the mud.
*Squelch.*
It rose an inch. Then two.
I didn't stop. I walked my feet forward, keeping my chest glued to the tire, driving through my hips. The tire reached a forty-five-degree angle.
Now the hands.
I dropped my hips, flipped my hands under the lip, and exploded upward.
*BOOM.*
The tire slammed over, kicking up a cloud of dust.
"One," I gasped.
Givens stopped laughing. He adjusted his toothpick.
"Don't celebrate yet," he called out. "You got fifty yards to go."
***
Red Gold
By noon, my arms felt like jelly.
I had moved all five tires. My shirt was ruined, stained with black rubber dust and mud. My knuckles were bleeding inside my gloves.
But the System was singing.
[Hidden Stat Unlocked: Functional Strength]
* Difference: Gym strength is for show. Functional strength is for survival.
* Bonus: Improves "Tackle Breaking" and "Grip."
* Progress: +0.5 Strength XP.
It was working. The weird angles and awkward weights were hitting muscles the barbell missed.
Now came the bonus round.
"Copper pile is over there," Givens pointed to a heap of tangled wires pulled from old washing machines and wrecked trucks. "Strip it clean. Whatever you bundle, I buy at market rate."
I sat on an overturned bucket, a box cutter in my hand.
This was tedious work. You had to slice the insulation, peel it back, and pull out the gleaming red wire without slicing your fingers.
Sheldon would have hated this. The texture was gross, and the repetition was mind-numbing.
But I loved it.
Every strand of copper was a penny. Every bundle was a dollar.
*In my old life,* I thought, slicing through a thick black cable, *I spent weekends watching football and drinking beer. I spent money I didn't have.*
*Now? I'm twelve years old, sitting in a junkyard, earning every cent.*
I worked for two hours straight. I stripped wire until my hands cramped into claws. I made three neat coils of bright, shiny copper.
"Time's up!" Givens yelled.
I stood up, my knees cracking. I carried the coils to the scale.
Givens weighed them. "Four pounds. Not bad for a rookie."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. He peeled off a twenty (for the labor) and three singles (for the copper).
"Twenty-three bucks," he said.
He handed it to me. His rough hand lingered on the cash for a second.
"You work hard, Cooper," he grunted. "Most kids your age would've quit after the first tire."
"I need the money," I said simply.
"Come back next Saturday," he said. "I got engine blocks that need moving."
"Yes, sir."
***
The Agent's Cut
Meemaw's car was waiting outside the gate. She was reading a tabloid magazine, looking completely out of place in the salvage yard with her perfectly done hair.
I opened the door and slid in. I smelled like a mechanic's armpit.
"You smell expensive," Meemaw said, not looking up. "Did you get the money?"
"Yeah."
I pulled out the cash. Twenty-three dollars.
Meemaw held out her hand. "Contract is a contract."
I sighed and handed her two dollars and thirty cents.
She tucked the money into her purse with a satisfied click.
"Pleasure doing business with you," she said. She put the car in gear. "Now, since you look like you've been fighting a greased pig, we're going to the drive-thru."
"I can't," I said, leaning my head back against the seat. "Sheldon's diet. No sugar."
"Who said it was for you?" Meemaw winked. "I'm getting a milkshake. You're getting water. But I'll buy you a plain hamburger. Protein, right?"
I smiled tiredly. "Thanks, Meemaw."
As we drove toward the Dairy Queen, I looked at the twenty dollars and seventy cents remaining in my hand.
It wasn't much. But added to my secret stash, I was getting close to eighty dollars.
Enough for a weight belt. Or maybe...
[System Shop Recommendation]
* Item: Ankle weights (5lbs).
* Cost: ~$15.00 at RadioShack/Sports Store.
* Benefit: Passive resistance training during school hours.
I looked at my skinny legs.
*If I wear them under my jeans,* I thought, *nobody will know.*
"Meemaw," I said. "Can we stop at the sporting goods store on the way home?"
"You got money burning a hole in your pocket?"
"Investing," I corrected her. "I'm investing in the hardware."
Meemaw chuckled. "You sound like your grandfather. Alright. But if you buy a jockstrap, don't ask me to size it for you."
I laughed. The pain in my ribs flared up, but it felt distant now.
The tires were moved. The money was earned. And the grind was just beginning.