I think the thermometer's broken. I think the A/C's been running for the last 70 consecutive hours. I think the crabgrass has taken over what few tomatoes the squirrels have left us. I think the yard will never see me behind the mower again. I think the shimmer coming up off the front walk might be a physical, touchable thing. I think I want to move my operation to the basement, take my shirt off, lie in the cool of the soil down there. I think I want to strap a box fan to my chest. I think the dog thinks we broke the world. I think the Toad might think this is how it always was, how it always will be. I think the jackshit fussy whine-grunt litany of complaint he's had going since he woke up is him saying he never expected it to be hotter outside than in.