New York City, August 11, 2013

★★★★ The cool night air blowing through the open bedroom window had become outright cold air by the time anyone was awake enough in the morning to close the window. Thin eastern clouds batted aside the sun, the first soft stroke in a daylong low-grade cloud-sun battle. Walking around was like using an unfamiliar hotel shower with a lag on the temperature knob — as soon as the presumption of shade settled in, a hot spot on the nape of the dark t-shirt announced the return of the sun. At the steps of the Museum of Natural History, the pigeon spikes on Teddy Roosevelt’s head stood out against the sky like stray floating hairs, as if his horse had been shuffling its bronze hooves on a wool carpet. The sun applied a pulse of heat to the line standing reading menus outside the Shake Shack. A large, persistent insect battered its hard shell against the mirrored face of the apartment tower. The jets were on in the schoolyard fountain, and a toy truck had been left parked in the jet spray. The toddler, in shoes and socks and absorbent cotton, charged in to rescue it, then carried it off to a flooded pothole. Truck swim! he said. The gray water was up to the top of his socks. The fountain kept splashing, occasionally invaded by a daring child; no one was using it to cool off in. By the time the truck’s owner appeared, in clean dry swim trunks, and reclaimed his property, the toddler was wet and grimy from scalp to toes, and chilly to the touch. Truck swim! he protested.