Why He Was Sure the Dead Heat Pump Would Ruin His Winter
The thermostat in the hallway read 91 degrees, and the two people at the kitchen table were both telling me they were fine. It was the second week of August, that stretch in Kingfisher County where the nights quit cooling off and the south wind feels like it came out of a clothes dryer. The house was a brick ranch built in the seventies, a few miles out on a section-line road, with a pecan tree in the yard and a pickup parked by the shed that was older than some of my techs. The couple had lived there over forty years. He farmed wheat until his knees said no. She taught third grade and still…
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