Ninety degrees of thick, rude heat — a summer guest we can’t get rid of — hovering over our city, our brick house. Yet our son, who’s leaving home tomorrow, we wish would stay. No AC in his room, but a window unit in ours for wicked waves like this. He’s almost eighteen. Can’t sleep, he says, and, though he’s refused our offer before, now he quickly slips his mattress onto the floor in our room and plops down: Six foot five, a man turned back into a boy before us. The heat, we all keep saying, it’s awful. In the morning I rise early and shut off the AC just to hear him breathing.