The hut was made out of clay with no stone to speak of and barely any wood. The roof was made out of hay. There was a tiny table in the middle of the room with two tiny chairs around it, a hay bed to the side for the couple and a tinier hay bed for their child.

The boy’s name was Andrew Finn, son of Andrew Joe, and Andrew Elizabeth. It took him several weeks to decipher these names, and he did not like them.

‘Why couldn’t mom name me? Why does my first name sound better than my last one? And why do they call me...’

“Finchoo achoo, how's my boy?” Elizabeth, who had just woken up, grabbed him by the waist. “You’re a strong little boy, aren’t you? Strong and handsome, just like your dad.” She winked at the dude who watched them from the bed.

‘What is she thinking?’ Finn's dad was built like a twig. He was long and lanky and had sunken cheeks which he tried to cover up with a scraggly mustache. ‘Shave it!’ Finn yelled at him for the umpteenth time, but all that came out were "wawa" noises.

The difference between Joe and Elizabeth was like night and day. He was a stick, while she had the chest of a goddess. His cheeks were sunken while hers were plump and full. Long, green hair fell on her back, and her smile could melt the heart of a minotaur.

‘I’ve inherited her genes, right? That a-hole God didn’t screw me over, right?’

As the baby made noises only he understood, Elizabeth carried him in her arms while moving around the room. “Finchoo, achoo, Finchoo, achoo,” she sang until the baby started crying. Fortunately, he quickly shut up once she gave him milk.

‘Humiliation...’ Mark was a businessman who had worked himself to the bone. Now, he was sucking on a stranger’s chest while dreading what would follow. Fortunately, besides pooping himself and having to suffer through Joe’s cloth changes, life as a baby was an unexpected vacation.

Finn spent his days trying to translate his parents' language. It sounded like Italian but spoken with a Russian accent. Guests would sometimes come into the hut, so he could pick up bits and pieces from their conversations: ‘seat, chair, food, husband, …’ Despite not being able to say anything, the baby’s vocabulary increased by the day.

"Achoo,” he cried out when the dog walked past him.

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“Look darling, look. He said the word again.”

While Elizabeth jumped up and down with joy, Finn stared daggers at the unnerving mut. It was a medium sized stray with short, brown fur and a long, fluffy tail that was slightly longer than his body.

‘I hate you.' In response to his gurgles, the dog barked and wagged its tail all over the floor, stirring up dust. ‘As soon as I can walk, I’m going to cut it off!’

Finn was not a dog person in his past life, and this would definitely not change within this one. It took three agonizing months until a neighbor noticed the dog was causing his allergy, and they finally kicked it out of the hut.

In the meantime, Joe had finished another room and started working on a stove. Despite his physique, he was an industrious fellow. He worked from dusk 'till dawn without complaint.

Every day, he would return from work exhausted, kiss his wife and his son, and then empty his pockets in a corner of the room. Sometimes he brought grains, other times fruit or vegetables. But, without fail, Finn’s father would bring something home.

‘We’re poor as dirt,’ the baby concluded. If the shabby house wasn’t proof enough, the couple hid all of Joe’s loot under a mountain of blankets. Soon, Joe dug a hole for it which eventually became an improvised cellar.

By the time Finn was one year old, his father had built a kitchen, a bathroom, and a second dormitory out of nothing but dirt and sticks. The walls were crooked and they smelled like cow dung, but Finn was still rather impressed.

He was hungry for knowledge, any kind of knowledge that might be useful later on, so the baby often crawled near his father and watched him work.

“Hmm,” the man stopped one day and gave his curious son a second look. “Achoo, do you want to play with clay?”

His son didn’t play like other children his age. Now that Joe thought about it, he didn’t laugh or crave attention or do anything much befitting his age. All he did was practice walking and observe his parents all day long.

As expected, Finn shook his head.

“Do you want to learn how to build a house?” his father chuckled.

However, the boy nodded, and Joe’s eyes went wide. He asked again, and the boy again nodded.

‘Teach me!!!’ Finn squealed inside his mind. ‘I’ve been sleeping, pooping, and eating for a whole God damn year! You a-holes only talk about work and your neighbors. There isn’t a single book in this whole Goddamn house! Please... I’m so bored.’

It was a long, arduous journey, but by the time he could walk, Finn finished his first, miniature, clay house. It looked like a doll house, but it was so detailed and meticulous, it put his father’s work to shame.

[Name: Andrew Finn.

Nickname: Achoo

Age: One year and two months old.

Abilities:

- Sleeping and pooping {master}

- Eating solid food {intermediate}

- Walking {beginner}

- Language: Listening {experienced}, talking {infant}, writing {none}

- Clay construction: Miniature models {Master}; Full scale construction: {unknown}

- Comments: None]