Sun always did beat down mercilessly didn’t it? Damn sweat pooling on Roy’s back as he drives the fence posts into the hard-packed dirt. His back aches, the strain pulling tight between his shoulders, but he keeps at it, jaw set and determined. Each slam of the post driver sends a dull shock through his arms, the rhythmic clang filling the otherwise quiet air.

He’s so focused, so locked into the motion, that the tap on his shoulder catches him off guard. He straightens, wincing as his spine protests, and turns to see his farmhand standing there, holding a pitcher of sweet tea in one hand and a glass in the other. The ice clinks softly as it melts in the heat, condensation dripping down the sides.

Roy squints, his face slick with sweat. “What’s that for?” he mumbles gruff, his voice rough from hours of work and no water, probably off put by the kind gesture.