Francesco pushed the cart through the double doors, wheels bumping over the threshold. The computer lab buzzed with keyboard clicks and printer hums. Rows of monitors glowed with spinning logos and scrolling text. His own screen remained blank, waiting.
Maya's paper butterflies danced across three cards of paper. Sam's color wheel spun with a soft whirring click-click-click. Francesco plugged his cord into the desk outlet. The power button glowed red once. Then dark.
Press. Nothing. Press again. The screen flickered — gray bars, then black. Francesco opened the tape and pulled out a snarled nest of red, blue, green, and black wires. His fingers worked fast, sorting, testing, reconnecting.
Click. Snap. He plugged in the last connector. The screen erupted in color — pixel buildings marching row by row, cars honking in perfect rhythm, a tiny sun rising over a blocky skyline. People gathered at his desk.
A teacher stepped forward. "Can you show us how it works?" Francesco reached for the controller. The screen froze — a car stuck mid-honk, a person frozen on a balcony. The crowd went quiet.
Francesco closed his eyes. One breath. He opened them, steadied his hands, and pressed three keys in order — restart, load, run. The screen stayed black. Then it blinked. Once. Twice.
The monitor burst into motion. Francesco guided the controller — cars zoomed, lights changed from red to green to yellow, tiny people waved from windows. Gasps rose from the crowd. Maya's paper butterflies seemed to flutter faster.
"This is the one I built all by myself," Francesco said, pointing at the screen. The teacher nodded slowly. "You can see the hard work right here." Francesco stood tall beside his monitor, shoulders loose, watching his city roll on.