Like most 12-year-old boys, Miguel was right handed and wanted to be a soccer player when he grew up. To him though, he knew that would never happen. At such a young age Miguel had already accepted the fate of being a farmer.
Miguel woke with a start. He looked out of his house, at the sky and instantaneously realised he was late for work if he walked. He quickly got up and ready and took off to the crops with only one thought keeping him going: his family. He pushed harder as he ran up the hill. He heard the familiar rush of school kids walk past, laughing, and having fun every day. He heard the wind rushing past his ear, whistling as he ran. And he heard himself, breathing, panting, and struggling in this unfair life of his.
At the crops,