The First of August

The heatwave was relentless, baking the asphalt outside until it shimmered. Even the flies buzzing against the windowpane seemed sluggish from the humidity. "Sis... what should I write in my journal for tomorrow? School starts soon..." Tommy’s voice was a dry raspy whisper, muffled by the heavy down comforter pulled right up to his chin. I smiled gently, spoon-feeding him the last of the thick, dark red soup. "Shh, don't worry about school. As long as we keep our promise, summer will never end." His eyes fluttered shut. Once his chest settled into a rhythmic, albeit shallow, rise and fall, I slipped out of the stifling bedroom. My neck was itching like crazy again. I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror—another cluster of angry, purple punctures near the jugular. "Damn mosquitoes," I muttered, scratching until it stung. "They're eating me alive this year." I walked to the wall and tore off the top page of the calendar. Beneath it, the fresh page stared back in bold black ink: **August 1st**.