The teenagers sat dejected beside a barren field.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Farming looks so easy,” they said, “in the game. But why doesn’t the food grow?”
“You need to work the land,” I replied. “Plough, plant, water. As my parents did.” As I did, before the farm failed. “And it takes time, unlike in the game.”
“Spring to Autumn.”
“We can’t harvest it today?”
I shook my head, remembering the heartbreak of losing my home and business, after my parents died. “Not in real life, or I’d still be doing it.” I sighed.
We all walked away, dejected.