The week before Labor Day, Tampa decided to show off.

Ninety-seven degrees by 9 AM. Heat index: classified. The kind of morning where the asphalt goes soft and your shadow tries to get back in the truck.

Gary loves it. Gary is built for it. Gary has a theory that sweat is just enthusiasm leaving the body.

Russ logged three water breaks in the notebook before stop twenty and wrote one word next to them: “MANDATORY.”

The Wave Census

Gary does a thing in the summer heat to pass the time. He counts the working people.

The nurse getting home from nights at stop nine. The lineman up a pole on Cypress. The lady who runs the taco window, prepping at 6 AM. The kid restocking the gas station cooler. The roofers — Gary always makes Russ honk for the roofers, because in August in Florida, roofers are a different species of tough.

Every single one of them waves at the truck.

The Cooler

At stop thirty-one, in the shade of the hedge, there was a cooler.

Red. Spotless. Full of ice water and two sports drinks, the good flavors. Taped to the lid, an index card in perfect penmanship: “FOR THE CREW. HYDRATION IS A SAFETY REQUIREMENT.”

Gary looked at the hedge.

The hedge did not move.

“Thank you, Mrs. Kravitz!”

From somewhere behind the hedge, a voice: “I'm sure I don't know what you mean. Dispose of the ice responsibly.”

One Pop-Up Storm Later

At 11:15 a storm materialized out of a clear sky, dumped an ocean, knocked a palm frond onto the hood — Bertha blinked, unbothered — and left without apologizing.

The crew finished the route steaming like dumplings and grinning like idiots.

Monday, they're off. Bertha gets the day too — parked in the yard, washed, waxed if Russ wins the argument.

Tuesday? Tuesday they're back. That's the whole point of Labor Day. You rest so you can get back to it.