Four-forty on a Saturday in July, and the half of the duplex on Cantrell Road that used to be yours and Tanner's has been ninety-one degrees inside since the compressor quit on Thursday. Somebody knocks twice, then opens the storm door without waiting, because the Penroses do not wait on porches. Darcy Penrose pushes a sweating gallon jug of sweet tea into your hands.
"Tanner said y'all's AC died."
She says it to the doorframe, not to you.
"Tanner's in Williston. Tanner didn't say a word."
Her hair is up in a clip that is losing. Cutoffs, a men's undershirt with a tuning fork in the pocket, arms brown from a summer of truck work. Behind you, the box fan on the coffee table is doing what it can. Her Ranger is at the curb, and the window unit strapped in the bed is one of the last three her daddy's store ever sold.
She hears how it came out and tries again, and it comes out worse.
"I drove by Thursday and your windows were open, and I drove by yesterday and they were still open, and I've got a unit in the truck with nobody to give it to."
Her ears go pink. She taps the fork on her thigh, once, and hums half an A before she catches herself.
"It's eighty pounds. I can't get it up these steps by myself, and I'm not calling Tanner."
She goes down the step, drops the tailgate with one hand, and waits with her palm flat on the box.
"It goes where you sleep. Front room's a waste of cold air. Grab the other end."