It is hot today, and it’ll be hotter tomorrow. It’s hard to work and hard to sleep, easy to swim, and Roby seems happy, if sweaty. 

There’s also a miniature genocide unfolding in my stomach. The destruction of my gut biome has created a strange sense of impending doom, or maybe that’s just this corner of my circumstances. 

At least I can sweat, Archie cannot. He’s sitting next to me and his stiff panting makes it tough to write. I’ll put ice cubes in his water bowl tomorrow.