I tasted my own sweat, forming above my upper lip and trickling a drop or two at a time into my mouth. Salty and tepid, like those unforgiving snakes Mr. Purvis on the first floor claims to own but no one has ever seen. The very air itself was so humid that it almost seemed to bunch and cluster, like the lumps in long spoiled milk.

I feel the need to add that it was October. The weather had no business – no RIGHT! – to be serving up such temperatures at this time of year. It was off-putting, and I have to admit that in my heat fueled proto-delirium I had found myself half tempted to compose an editorial for the paper urging citizens to rise up and put an end to the corrupt political system that would allow such a thing to occur.

Probably best that I didn’t.

The old house had transformed into an oven – my rooms especially, being that they are situated at the very top of the structure. I tried to start over on the letter I had been composing to my aunt, but even with all three of my windows open, the heat was unbearable. It didn’t help that my head ached. I want to say that I stuck it out admirably, but in retrospect it was really only ever a matter of time before I gave in to the reality that staying longer could only possibly result in me sweltering to death.

Lounging in the shade of one of the bushes in the flower garden, I decided, might be a better use of my time.