Midnight, and the heat still clings to the walls. I can't sleep, so I walk the house, picking up things I've kept.
First: the seed packet. 'Pumpkin, plant by June 15.' That was three weeks ago. The woman from two streets over gave it to me during the heatwave. She saw me sweating at the bus stop and ran back inside with a glass of water and this packet. Said her garden had too many volunteers.
Second: the memory of the power outage. The whole block came outside. Tommy, my old teammate from high school, brought over a cooler of ice. We'd barely spoken in years, but that night we stood in the dark and talked about the heat like we were still on the same bench.
Third: the heatwave itself. It made neighbors of strangers. Everyone's porch lights stayed on past midnight. We learned each other's names. I learned hers—Carol. She waves now when I drive past.
Fourth: this quiet hour. The thoughts that only come after midnight. I think about Carol and Tommy and the way a hundred degrees can press people together until they become something new.
I put the seed packet in the windowsill. I'll plant them tonight, late, under the moon. Maybe they'll take. Maybe I'll water them every evening, just like she said.