The Trials of a City Boy
A week in George's daily life was an endless cycle of toil, unpredictability, and frustration.
Mornings began in the barn, the scent of hay and animals thick in the air, clinging to George’s clothes and skin no matter how much he tried to avoid it. Labour was relentless, and every day felt like an assault on his body—his hands, once soft and well-manicured, now bore the telltale callouses of work he never imagined himself doing. His back ached from lifting, his legs throbbed from standing, and the mere thought of another day of mucking stalls or hauling feed made him long for the comforts of home even more.
Wilbur, ever the scholar, took to their chores with an infuriatingly academic approach. He corrected George’s grip on a shovel, his technique in lifting, his posture while walking. "Efficiency is key!" he'd declare, arms flailing, while George, exasperated, rolled his eyes. It wasn’t just work—Wilbur had a fact, an opinion, or a monologue for everything, whether it was the best way to stack hay or the historical significance of their tools.
Tommy was an agent of chaos, his boundless energy making even the most mundane tasks feel like barely contained disasters. He'd start by tossing hay where it shouldn’t be, knocking over buckets, or swinging tools like weapons. "Just a little fun, Georgie!" he'd grin, already moving on to his next scheme. And despite George’s best efforts, Tommy somehow always managed to rope him into some ridiculous nonsense, whether it was racing wheelbarrows or engaging in impromptu wrestling matches in the mud.
Techno, silent and looming, was another kind of terror. He worked methodically, his strength almost unnatural, moving through chores with quiet precision. He didn't waste words on unnecessary chatter, but his piercing gaze could stop even Tommy in his tracks. George never knew whether Techno was indifferent to his suffering or secretly enjoying it, but either way, he remained an ever-present figure of quiet intimidation.
And then there was Phil. Steady, kind, ever-patient Phil. He was the one who checked George’s hands for blisters, who made sure he drank enough water, who left out extra portions of food at dinner. He encouraged, reassured, and guided—never scolding, never judging. But for all his kindness, George couldn't shake the feeling that Phil was watching him too closely, waiting for him to prove himself in a way George wasn’t sure he could. The unwavering kindness was almost more terrifying than anger—it meant Phil expected something of him, something more than he was ready to give.
And so the days passed, a blur of exhaustion and frustration, of being corrected, teased, challenged, and cared for. George didn’t know whether he was getting stronger or just more resigned, but one thing was clear: this wasn’t the life he wanted. And yet, something about it—about them—was becoming harder and harder to push away.
The glorious day had arrived.
Saturday.
Which meant technology.
Which meant the only thing keeping George sane.
George clutched his phone like it was a holy relic, quickly plugging it into his precious (and well-hidden) generator.
Phil, gracious overlord of the household, had begrudgingly returned it for the day. "You know, mate," he had said, arms crossed as he handed it over, "wouldn't you rather spend some time with us? Play some cards, maybe? Go outside for a bit?"
George barely resisted rolling his eyes. "Phil, I just got it back."
Phil chuckled, ruffling George’s hair in that infuriatingly fond way of his. "Alright, alright. Just don’t forget there’s more to life than staring at a screen."
George immediately dialed his parents.
It rang.
And rang.
And—
Voicemail.
He scowled, redialed, and—
Voicemail.
George stared at the screen in betrayal. His grip on the phone tightened, his breath shallow as a cold realization settled in his chest. They hadn’t just been on call with someone else. They had chosen not to answer.
They abandoned him.
In his time of need, his own blood had forsaken him. It was an aching, hollow kind of rejection, the kind that left his stomach twisted and his mind racing.
The countryside was winning. It had taken his dignity, his comfort, and now it was severing the last, fragile tether he had to his old life.
He refused to let that happen.
Since calling home was a failure, George moved to Plan B—showing Tommy, Techno, and Wilbur the wonders of the modern world.
He gathered them in his attic hideaway, flipping through photos on his phone.
“Alright, look.” George gestured at a picture of the London skyline. “This is where I live.”
Tommy squinted. “Where’s the sky?”
“…What?”
Tommy pointed. “There’s no sky, it’s just buildings.”
George sighed. “That’s called a city, Tommy.”
Techno leaned in. “Why are there so many people?”
“Because there are eight million of us.”
Tommy’s eyes widened in horror. “EIGHT MILLION TOMMYS?!”
George shuddered. “Prime forbid.”
George scrolled through pictures of his school, showing Wilbur the grand halls and uniformed students.
Wilbur huffed. "Pfft. A bit pretentious, don’t you think?"
George gave him a flat look. "Wilbur, you write sonnets about your girlfriend in a barn."
Wilbur waved a hand. "That's art. Not pretension."
George showed him a picture of a bookstore, knowing that would win him over.
Wilbur squinted at the shelves. “…How many books?”
George smirked. “Thousands.”
Wilbur gasped. "Thousands?"
George leaned back smugly. “Maybe tens of thousands.”
Wilbur clutched his heart. "Prime bless London."
Tommy snatched the phone and started swiping through photos at light speed.
"What’s this? What’s that? OH WHAT’S THAT—"
"TOMMY, GIVE IT BACK!" George lunged.
Tommy dodged and kept scrolling.
“OI, TECHNO LOOK! IT’S A HUGE RAT!”
Techno glanced over. “…That’s a dog.”
“IT’S MASSIVE!”
George finally yanked his phone back, glaring.
"That was my family's chihuahua, you gremlin."
Tommy snorted. “Looks like a rat.”
George was never showing them anything again.
As the laughter settled, George stared at his screen.
At the life he used to have.
He sighed, tucking his phone away.
It wasn’t the same here.