Chris stood at the sink, washing, sweat dripping down her back. Jeremy dried. He handed the dishes to Laura, who handed them to me, and I put them away. Dan finished clearing the table and storing leftovers. Our hair grew in volume as the minutes passed.

We had only played two games, as opposed to the normal three or even four, drenched in sweat and humidity and struggling to breathe. Even so, we didn’t start making dinner until 9:30 and eating until 10 or so.

Game 7 of the NBA Finals was projected on a sheet in the living room, just this side of the front door. And smells of sweet potato hash, bacon, waffles, and other breakfast foods filled the air.