Summer rental

4:05am The windows are open, hoping to capture the faint winds and convert them into a mythical cooling cross-breeze. A gust passes through vacuuming all the doors shut, cancelling hope for a miracle. I’m awake. It’s cool but I’m on top of the covers and not cool enough. The plastic thump-thump-thump of the oscillating fan reaching the end of its arc is rhythmic yet not. After three-to-six attempts, it yields to the resistance and heads the other way. It will be back soon. Another fan in the room sounds like a far off propeller plane looping around the property. I await its arrival at each approach. The alleyway ebbs and flows throughout the night with the smell of marijuana smoke, teens cussing, and the clinking of bottles as passers-by rummage through recycling bins. There’s a sick child in the other room. My child. Been sick for days, poor thing. On antibiotics now. Spit the first dose on the floor because she didn’t like the taste. I can hear her labored breath as different subconscious systems battle for what they deem as comfortable. Warm, yet shivering. Cold, yet burning up. Asleep, yet aware. My wife is there next to her. Also sick with a persistent unspecified cough. Since arriving at the rental three days ago, I have only left the house to buy medicine and wine.