“I can do it. I just can’t.”

August read the line over and over again. Something was bothering him; something so insignificant to everybody else that no one could tell him what it was. He rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand, digging into his mind to try to configure what was wrong the only way a seven-year-old knew: imagining.

He imagined someone saying it, and again it wasn’t right: it didn’t sound right. Something about the words was contradictory; something in that line didn’t make sense.
A light pinged in the young August’s head.
“Yes!” his mind screamed, as joy surged through him. “I worked it out! It should be ‘I can’t do it. I just can’t.’ That makes sense now!”

August amended the sentence and looked at it with a smile, proud of his ever-improving talent. Only moments passed as he beamed down at his red marked amendment before another erroneous line poked its way into his peripheral vision and he began the process once more, and so it would be for the rest of his life.