Bethany Beach, Delaware, to New York City, July 19, 2015

★★ Birds cheeped and trilled. A low bullfroggy groan throbbed from somewhere in the shade underneath the house. Contrails fanned out across the zenith, tracing other people’s itineraries, in all stages of decay. A dove moaned and pigeons clapped low overhead. Walking out into direct sun was bad, and standing over the asphalt of the farmers’ market was worse, sickening, defeating. The new and better beach umbrella, once solved, made a narrow niche of shelter and shade. The beach chair had to be turned sideways to save feet the risk of burning. A dusty or salty haze lay over everything, but the colors and details of the metropolis of umbrellas could still be discerned all the way till the shore bent back out of view in the distance. The waves hit the feet with a shocking chill, sharp as the broken shells underfoot, but a few steps further was soft sand and a warmth that overcame the cold currents. Each passing swell carried a little pocket of cooler and more breathable air along with it. The afternoon sand was baked so dry it fell entirely away from the feet. The new and better beach umbrella had blown down and had to be found and re-staked. The late light was clear but opening the door led right back into a wall of suffocating air. A thin moon hung to the left of the highway, with the evening star beside it. Some number of miles later it was gone and there was only the night, the color of an old plum going bad. The city was as hot and bad as anyone could have expected.