Frankie leaned across the window sill watching the street, trying to catch the last of the cooler night air. Early on summer mornings the action came in segments. First Mr. Bronx came back from his nightly stroll, then dueling paper boys from the Press and the News made thud slip sounds as they tossed rolled papers to the stoops from their bikes. Shortly after that it was a frenzied 10 minutes as screen doors clicked and hard shoes shuffled along the sidewalks. The scoop dance of newspaper retrieval and a quick dash to the car or the corner bus stop then the street was quiet as the sun rose higher.
Heat started at the edge of the freeway, bent and leaked along the sides of buildings and hovered over the sidewalk. Across the street from Frankie's apartment building the duplexes all had one or two trees in the front yard. It was here that the only fragment of relief could be found from the summer sun. You had to know someone, be friends with them and the family to be granted the treasure of a share in a shady spot. Lucky for Frankie, she made friends easily.
