Morning brightened and darkened again. The boys dozed in their bunks in the dimness. North and south above the river were gray, rippling clouds, but overhead the ripples had become blue rifts, and the sun momentarily shone. The gray was darkening again when the seven-year-old got up and out. There was a chilly gust, then warm thick stillness. Down by Columbus Circle, the sun found another opening, raising a mirror-brightness from the windows on Central Park South. The train platforms were hot and noxious; a rush of sweltering air overpowered the air conditioning when the B train car opened its doors at Herald Square. Downtown, the sun was all the way out, shining down the subway steps — and then, in the span of the stroll to the office, the clouds took over. The back and forth continued out the windows till by afternoon it had resolved, emphatically, in the sun’s favor. Busy breezes plied the streets. A lone helicopter hovered against white puffs a few blocks above Houston. Up in the 60s again, the breeze bent back the plants on the Broadway median. Each tossing leaf in the middle distance stood out in the sharpened light. The smell of garbage on the fresh air betokened simply a garbage truck, right there at the curb, loading garbage. In the dusk, the two-year-old’s tennis-ball-green shirt glimmered as he took the plaza steps at one assisted bound, racing for the waiting ice cream truck. Airplane lights glowed warmly at all heights and distances, a swarm of manmade Venuses, and the clouds were white against the darkened blue.