HEATBy JOYCE CAROL OATES​It was mid

HEATBy JOYCE CAROL OATES​It was midsummer, the heat rippling above the macadam roads, cicadas screaming out of the trees, and the sky like pewter, glaring.​The days were the same day, like the shallow mud-brown river moving always in the same direction but so low you couldn't see it. Except for Sunday: church in the morning, then the fat Sunday newspaper, the color comics, and newsprint on your fingers.