It was hot outside that week. The dog days of August, they call it – yeah, seems about right. The air carried the kind of hot that plasters you to your sheets as you lie in bed struggling to sleep – even breathing makes you sweat. The air smelled stale, sick and sweet — like rotting compost, swamp water, and damp forest. The fan on my dresser, pointed directly at me, didn’t help. It only, momentarily, helped me catch my breath.