Chapter 4

Owen's eyelids fluttered open as the shrill sound of his alarm clock pierced the stillness of the early morning. Groggily, he fumbled to silence the insistent beeping, glancing at the clock to see the red digits mock him with the reality of the hour—6:00 AM. With a resigned sigh, he swung his legs out of bed and muttered, "Come on, Owen. Time to get to work."

The floorboards creaked under his weight as he tiptoed through the dimly lit apartment, careful not to disturb the peaceful slumber of his roommates. He went to the bathroom first to brush his teeth and take a shower. Awake from the warm water, he made his way to the kitchen, where the soft glow of the dawn peeked through the curtains.

The coffee machine hummed to life and Owen moved with a quiet efficiency, mindful of the early hour. He cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking them silently as the aroma of brewing coffee began to waft through the kitchen. The rhythmic clatter of utensils against the counter seemed to dance in sync with his tired, determined movements.

'I'm not too much of a coffee guy but today I need the caffeine.'

Owen prepared a simple breakfast for himself, the sizzle of bacon in the pan echoing in the stillness of the morning. Eventually, he sat at the dinner table with a plate of breakfast and sugary coffee, allowing him to gather his thoughts before the rush of the impending workday.

The clock ticked closer to seven. He went to his room and switched from his sweatpants and shirt to cargo pants and a lime green high-visibility vest on top of a black long-sleeved shirt.

Owen went to the front door and laced up his steel-toed work boots with a practiced hand. He remembered to grab his keys and phone after he was done. The aroma of coffee lingered on his breath as he locked the apartment door behind him.

"Alright," he said under his breath. He lingered at the door for a few seconds, drawing in a long breath. "Come on, Owen. Come on."

His worn boots echoed against the empty hallway as he stepped out into the chilly dawn. The high-visibility vest caught the first rays of sunlight.

His condominium was a wide building that looked over the water. Three stories high, it was on the upper-middle echelon of town. Not so upper class that a biker rider wouldn't fit in but definitely strange in certain keen eyes.

There was a clinking of keys and the soft jingle of a bicycle chain. Honestly, Owen didn't care. He mounted his trusty bicycle, its frame showing the wear of countless commutes, and began pedalling.

The Bay was designed as one big suburban sprawl. Bus infatuation was terrible and cars were recommended for the average person. While Owen did have a driver's license and could probably afford a car if he started eating cup noodles everyday, he decided to live within his means and stick with his bicycle as his primary means of transportation. If he needed to go somewhere far fast, then he could just call a taxi. Taxis were abundant in the Bay.

The city slowly woke around him, but Owen pedaled with a steady determination. The rhythmic hum of the wheels against the pavement accompanied the brisk morning breeze. The thirty-minute ride to the construction site had become a routine, one he found surprisingly easy despite the early hour. The construction site was close to the center of the city, though slightly south-west. A skyscraper intended to stand alongside the city's stadium and museum.

The entrance to the construction site was marked by a large, weathered sign that read "Bay Heights Development." Beyond the entrance gate were towering yellow cranes.

The site itself was a hive of activity, with workers clad in safety gear moving purposefully among stacks of materials. The scent of freshly poured concrete mingled with the earthy aroma of lumber. For the past year and a half, it had been his second home. The smell and the rhythmic pounding of hammers and the distant whir of machinery filled the air.

Owen parked his bicycle in the designated area, joining the flow of workers streaming towards the heart of the construction zone. Tall, skeletal structures gradually taking shape marked the ongoing project—a modern high-rise building that promised to redefine the city's skyline.

As a younger man among the seasoned workers, Owen's role was that of a super labourer. He adeptly navigated between scaffolding and construction materials and did everything that was available.

"Owen, you'll be on—"

Today, his boss barked at him to assist in the assembly of wooden support beams. One of many parts of the building's inner framework.

"So the Handy Man is here," Frank, a middle-aged man with a pearly white smile, commented.

"Well, well, well, it's the Collector." Owen sent him a smile in turn. He placed his ladder forward, climbed to the top, and began hammering in a screw. "Got anything cool recently?"

Frank did the same thing save on the opposite end of the plank. "Nah, not this season. The kids have been nagging me for football equipment. Can't resist 'em."

"Looks like even the legendary Frank is affected by fatherhood."

"Ha! Pal, in twenty years, you'll understand."

Ping! Ping! Ping!

Hammer hit nail over and over again till satisfaction struck.

"Perfect on my end," Frank said.

"Me too."

The pair climbed down their ladders, folded them, and then took the portable set of steps somewhere safe. Once they were able to stop and talk, Owen leaned against a stack of plywood, a grin on his face. "You say that but you look like you're up to something," Owen said.

"Well…" Frank rolled his shoulders. "I have been teaching the youngins on how to throw a football here and there."

"I thought you said you were too old to do anything besides drink after work."

"Consider me out of retirement."

Laughter arose between them. Construction might not be the funnest thing in the world but it did have its moments, especially with friends.

"We still got seven hours left in the day," Frank said. "Unless your young bones are already cracking, I suggest we get back to it."

"Don't worry, I only stopped for you, old man."

"Ha! Don't call me old man just yet, kid."