The red-orange hue of the fading sunlight cast a pale glow on the walls of the house. It indicated that the summer night would be warm, if not hotter than the day that struck 39 degrees. The old Sombreto stared at passing birds that chirped with small squeaky sounds. The chattering of beetles started their melodious orchestra from the nearby mango tree. He tilted his head to regard the tree. He smiled upon seeing the many flowers that would soon bloom into Pico mangoes. He imagined harvesting the fruits and eating them with family. It was something he had done in many past summers. The old Sombreto—Poy to his friends and Patricio to his long-dead wife—relaxed on his old wooden chair made of Narra by the porch, and watched as twilight turned into night.