A Wandering Mind Is an Unhappy One, Even Beside a Heat Pump
He nodded the whole time I was talking, and the next morning he called the office to ask what I said. It was the middle of August, the kind of afternoon where the attic is 140 degrees by two o'clock and every call that comes in is a no-cool. The house was a brick ranch from the nineties on a couple of acres outside Kingfisher, the sort with a long gravel drive and a trampoline in the side yard. The homeowner was a dad in his forties, home with two kids while his wife worked, and he met me at the door with a toddler on his hip and the house sitting at 84 inside. The outdoor unit was humming…
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