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The air was dry, tasted like a burnt tortilla. The sun blazed white across a bleached out sky. There would be no relief from the heat, not for weeks to come.

It was summer. In Phoenix, summer meant average temperatures of 110 degrees, with no rain. The population went into hibernation, hiding from the intense heat inside air-conditioned concrete caves.

I was no different, scuttling to my car armed with oven mitts and bottled water. The oven mitts would keep my hands safe from the hot steering wheel until the air conditioning cooled the interior of my car. The water bottle ensured hydration. Everyone carried a water bottle. It is the first line of defense against heat exhaustion, heat stroke, dehydration.

In the summer, water is our god, Freon our lord and master.

Driving along Thunderbird Road, I gazed at the urban scenery. The sidewalks were empty, and the glare from their concrete surfaces made my eyes sting. I stopped for a red light. There was an empty lot on the corner, fenced in by chain link. A sign was attached, directing interested buyers to contact a local realtor. I wondered what sort of business would sprout up on this weedy, rocky lot, nearly barren except for a sad ironwood tree, its branches scraggly and weakened from the lack of rain.

It offered little shade to the old man curled up beneath it.

A car horn pierced the air, and I realized the light had changed. I made my way along the asphalt strip until I reached my destination.

The doctor's office was cool, the lights in the waiting room dim. The walls were painted a reassuring green, pale and comforting. The chairs were padded with sandy colored fabric, coordinating well with the earth-toned carpet. The waiting room was an oasis from the harsh summer light outside.

"You're doing very well," the doctor said, her Indian accent barely discernable. "Remember, you are very susceptible now to the bronchitis. Just because it is summer does not mean you can't get sick. I see you have your water bottle with you. Good." She smiled. "Don't leave home without it! See you in two months."

I stepped outside and felt the sting in my chest of dried air entering my tired lungs. I took a deep gulp of water, tried not to breath in too deeply as I made my way to my car. I put on my oven mitts and began to drive.

I was stopped again at the intersection with the empty lot, only this time it was opposite and to my left. I looked over to the corner and saw the old man standing there. He was holding up a cardboard sign. "Homeless

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