Mr. Foxe did not speak.
«What's the temperature?» asked Mr. Foxe, a minute later, as if he were too tired to turn his head to look.
«Store thermometer still reads ninety-two. Ninety-two right on the nose.»
Foxe sat on a packing crate, making the least motion to hold an orange soda bottle in his fingers. «Cool off,» he said. «Yes, I need an orange pop very much, right now.»
They sat there in the furnace, looking up at one special tenement window for a long time, waiting, waiting…