A dog's shadow crawled away, whimpering. Snow cones leaked like faucets. The color green deserted lawns, and roses shed withered petals to reveal their thorns. No breeze stirred the stiff laundry on clotheslines. On that afternoon, the street was deserted, except for Gabe Mendoza as he trudged toward the downtown library. He spied the temperature on the bank building: 104. Gabe loved the air conditioning at the library and the rack of magazines he could read for free. As the library came into view, he stopped and ran a hand across his sweaty brow. Through the wavering heat, he saw a figure in a 49ers sweatshirt approaching. Dang, Gabe thought. What's wrong with this guy? Why is he wearing a sweatshirt? “Son,” the figure beckoned to him. Son? Gabe wondered. Was this homeless man about to ask for a handout? There were countless times when Gabe had reached into his pocket and brought out what was there, but usually all he had were nickels and dimes. “It's me, your dad.” The figure in dirty clothes was pulling a large suitcase, which bumped along on wheels.
