Wiping sweat from her face, Gwen lifted her gaze to a sagging second level of roof above her, its chipped tiles sparkling under the reflection of the full moon. Some cosmic cook had slowly started cranking the temperature a week earlier, and Sage Valley was now, at the end of August, blasting at full roar. Whatever relief she could find out here was better than nothing. The feebly whirring minifan on her night table was no match against the full bake of this night. Even through her flip-flops, she could feel the burn of the shingles. Gwen Jones squeezed out of her bedroom window onto the sizzling roof below. Treasured friend, hilarious pal, and brilliant filmmaker-thanks for always being willing to bounce ideas with me. YOUNG, who first brought the issue of dwindling fossil fuels to my attention.
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