New York City, September 7, 2015

★★★ Room by room, different decisions were being made about the windows and the air conditioning, till the frying bacon forced the issue to be settled in the windows’ favor. The shadows outside were still coolish but the sun was sharpening. There was dappled shade on the pitcher’s mound on the concrete playground diamond — at least, on the effective spot for pitching kiddie wiffleball — but any contact beyond a simple nubber led into a blazing, blinding wasteland. Still it was time to wring the last opportunity out of summer: scooter and bicycle and skateboard traffic looped erratically around the hardtop; soccer and basketballs rolled free; the wiffleball lineup expanded and contracted, but mostly expanded, as new players wandered in and out. More parents showed up to play defense. The cleanup hitter blasted a pitch high into the brightness and the grownup pitcher turned to take step in pursuit and stumbled over a kiddie bike cutting behind. There were dry leaves on the ground. The shade deepened and extended further across the infield. Outside the gates, children were operating a lemonade stand. The pitcher had skipped sunscreen on the legs and spent early afternoon warily checking the calves for any sign of a flush. Afternoon was even more thoroughly sun-blasted, so that every increment of the sun’s movement registered. The narrow, merciful band of shade under the scaffold on the way down to the market had been pushed aside on the walk back. The shadow behind the glass tower at Amsterdam had widened, but was quickly interrupted by the reflection off the other glass tower, down and across the avenue, casting trembling line segments of light through the locust leaves. Sweat stung the newly shaven upper lip. After dinner and sunset, outdoors still presented a wall of heat. The three-year-old had insisted on flip-flops, and went sprinting up the block in them. At bedtime, the first splash of water down the face carried the taste of the day’s accumulated salt.