Must be 25 degrees, he though as he walked home. He had just finished dinner where he had talked with a couple of people. It was the first conversation he had had in two days. He wondered whether they had noticed that. He entered the rundown building where he lived and checked the mail. There were a couple of magazines for him. He walked the stairs to his second floor apartment. He was home. Or what passed for it, he thought. It was warmer. There were 23 days left until he got home, to the warmth of the island and to his friends. But it was still here.
Here where he was alone. He turned on the tv.