SLOANE
I woke up drowning in heat.
Sheets clung to my skin like wet paper. My hair plastered to the back of my neck. The air felt thick, heavy, pressing down on my chest like a physical weight.
I reached for my phone—7:23 a.m. Already eighty-four degrees outside, forecast high of ninety-eight.
Great.
I kicked off the covers and immediately regretted it; the movement only stirred more hot air around me.
From downstairs came Victoria’s voice—sharp, stressed, phone pressed to her ear.
“—yes, I understand you’re backed up, but it’s going to be nearly one hundred degrees today and we have no air conditioning—”
I sat up.
No air conditioning.
*Fuck.*
I peeled myself off the mattress, grabbed the first thing within reach—an oversized Flyers practice jersey that hit mid-thigh—and padded
