"He can't lift it, y'know." Tyler tried to drown out the external influences of the surrounding crowd, especially Geoffrey's. It was just him and the barbell. Him, and 140 lbs. of cold, hard steel. But who was he kidding? It was no use. Geoffrey's snide remarks drilled themselves into his brain, mocking him and his ineptitude. "I'm just saying–'training' can only do so much for a scarecrow like him. If puberty couldn't help him–" "Geoffrey, shut it! C'mon," Lucy said in hushed whispers. "Ty deserves his shot." Lucy Monroe-Calafat. Oh, Lucy. At least she gave a reprieve to waves of doubt. Yet that didn't make the weights any lighter. Tyler struggled not to groan as his arms vibrated–a stoppable force against a very immovable object, fighting in futility to move that iron bar up. How did those bodybuilders do it? Did they live in the gym? Sweat drizzled down Tyler's forehead, landing in a small pool at his feet–splatters of wasteful energy. Proof of effort squandered. Yet, with every moment that passed, the murmurs of the surrounding crowd became less subtle and more painstakingly obvious–Geoffrey and others included. Tyler looked to the side, instantly regretting it. Lucy was looking straight down at her feet, avoiding his glance. Tyler paled. What was I thinking? I can't do this. God, I'm an idiot. In that moment, the crowd was gone, the noise nothing more than echoes in Tyler's mind. And he was seven. "Tyler, stop!" his Dad said, agitation clear in his tone. The tiny barbell was supported by two milk jugs on either end. It was only 20 lbs. Only 20! "But Dad–" "No, son." His dad snatched the barbell away, ending the debate. "You're not ready." "I can! Miles can already lift 20 pounds! If I can't…" Tyler pouted while plopping down on the floor. To gain sympathy? It didn't work. "If you can't," his Dad started, "Then you can't. But don't let a shortcoming define you…" His voice trailed off as the present came back into view. Tyler took one more deep breath. Go! One inch. The crowd didn't react. C'mon! Another inch. Then another. The crowd's volume noticeably decreased. I define myself. No one else! Another. Another! The bar was now past his belly button. "Tyler, Tyler, Tyler!" Lucy looked around, gesturing to the others. The crowd got the message and started chanting and stomping their feet in rhythmic succession. "That's…" Geoffrey sputtered. "Impossible!" But it is. And this is just the beginning! Tyler raised the bar above his head… …and heard nothing. The crowd was silent. Then, a chorus of gasps, claps, and murmurs of shock swelled into a great crescendo in the room. From the corner of his eye, vision going in and out, Tyler could swear he saw Lucy beaming, hands clasped together. Geoffrey looked pissed, his hands clenched in fists. Still, Tyler heard nothing. He merely gasped and inhaled some sweet, sweet air.