Hot.

July 17, Albion.

It's hot. Circus life goes on.
The boys do practice and I do laundry, going back and forth between the loads and landing a hand spotting Dylan (when we first joined back, in May, and started practice again, John commented that I must be the only spotter who's also on the PTA.)
The laundromat is around the corner, oh joy. It's not air-conditioned, they never are, but somehow it's cooler in there than in our car, whose right-hand window cannot go down, and whose air-conditioned system is showing its years, the car in effect a black metal trap for heat. There's Raul and Luis, Sue and Mike, Rebecca and Marshall, but they go away one by one and I'm left alone with my two loads and the oppressive heat, and not a whisper of air.