Another silly explanation for time, time perception, and anything that goes 'tick-tock'.
Tractus stood where the big hand and the little hand meet on Max’s watch. The little intersection was usually throbbing and grinding, and the discomfort was compromising so that he’d stand on the floor just like everyone else. But on a day like this, the little man was able to stand on the slippery golden knob, peering majestically over the Time Team.
He divided the team in that painfully honest way that the dud gets picked last in gym class. The bulky ones got to push the minute hand because it made the most dramatic moves and because of its length, it was hard to move alone. The brainy ones got to move the hour hand because their calculated minds reacted fast and could determine the proper rate at which to advance it.
The averages were the forecasters. Their jobs were to make predictions about Max’s state of mind. His preoccupation with time was everything- an impromptu computer gaming binge, where Max blissfully lost track of time, gave the Time Team a few moments to grab breakfast.
They would need to know every last detail about the boy with the watch. They would need to press their ears against the glass face of the watch just to hear his English teacher screech:
“Read chapters four to eleven, and answer the questions in the booklet. I’m checking tomorrow morning, you hooligans.”
The Time Team grumbled. Homework was the leading cause of watch-checking.
Tractus closed his eyes, stood with his legs apart on the golden knob, and took deep breaths. He was trying not to worry.