The cold air makes us feel funny things sometimes. Like how she remembers the summer of 1992 in just one clip:
A setting sun over a middle class subdivision, its orange light bouncing playfully against the warped garage door and the consistent thud of a tennis ball, lopped lazily there and back again.
Back then, we didn't need to worry about permission. If we got into trouble, someone in charge issued punishment, typically lasting no more than one week. What was a week then?
A week was the summer, a tennis ball, and the familiar sunset.
