She checks the AQI at 3:47: 147. Orange. She swipes the notification, reapplies sunscreen from the tube in her back pocket without looking at it, and repositions the third cooling station so the mist catches the aisle without dampening the silk runner. The orchids are holding. She knew they would. Succulents for the boutonnieres, orchids and anthuriums for the arch, every stem fitted with a water pick twenty minutes ago. The dahlias the bride originally wanted would be paste by now.

The generator hums at 43 of its 60kW, a low diesel vibration she can feel through the soles of her shoes. Portable AC on the reception tent eats most of that: eighteen tons for a 40-by-60 footprint, plus catering refrigeration, plus the string lights the couple insisted on. Seventeen kW of headroom. Enough, if she staggers the warmers and dims the lights during dinner. She makes a note.

Her phone buzzes: SRP conservation event triggered, grid load critical, enrolled thermostats adjusting across the Valley. Doesn't affect her. She's been on generator since setup. But the backup venue, the Saguaro Ballroom, climate-controlled, on retainer since March. She texts to confirm while checking the seal on a chilled-towel bag with her other hand. Janelle at the front desk replies in nine seconds. They have a rhythm.

4:12. A hundred and fourteen on the venue's shaded thermometer, which means the asphalt path to the ceremony site will soften the heels of anyone who lingers. She's laid rubber matting over the worst stretch. Her own shirt has dried and re-soaked twice since noon, a salt line forming at the small of her back that she can feel when she bends. The ceremony is set for 6:30, when it should drop to 109, maybe 108. She calls this the ceremony window. Fourteen minutes, rehearsed twice: processional, one reading, vows, kiss, recessional. No homily. The officiant knows. He's done six of these with her. He coined the phrase "boutique ceremony," and she'd sent him a bottle of Clase Azul for it.

Guests will be directed from indoor cocktail hour to their seats three minutes before the bride walks. Not a second earlier. Every chair has a program, a handheld fan, and a chilled towel in a sealed bag. The towels were frozen at 2 PM and transferred to coolers at 5. She checks one. Still cold. Still damp through the plastic.

4:38. The mother of the bride finds her near the generator, raising her voice over the diesel thrum, asks if the air smells funny. She tells her it's the creosote, the desert. The AQI is 151 now, red, and she can taste it, metallic and flat, like licking a screen door. She rolls her sleeves down before touching the woman's arm, steers her gently toward the bridal suite, and texts her EMT while walking: sensitive-groups advisory, watch the grandparents. The EMT is positioned behind the catering tent with a cooler of ice and IV supplies.

She rechecks the waivers. All 146 guests signed digitally during RSVP. Standard language, assumption of risk for outdoor summer events. Her attorney drafted it in 2024 and she hasn't had to update it, which means it's working or it's never been tested.

5:15. A groomsman, 34, athletic build, three bourbon-and-Cokes since noon despite the hydration station she'd stocked with electrolyte water and cucumber-mint, finds her to say he feels dizzy. His face is flushed and dry. No sweat on his forehead, none on his upper lip. She doesn't like the no sweat.

She walks him to the EMT station like she's showing him where the restrooms are. Calm hand on his elbow, his skin hot and papery under her fingers. Temperature: 103.8. Not 104. Not yet. Ice packs on the neck, the armpits, the groin. Saline drip started. The groomsman protests. She tells him he'll feel amazing in twenty minutes and be back for the toasts. Texts the best man — Tyler's resting, heat got him, he's fine, don't tell the couple — while checking the generator load on her tablet: 47kW now, caterers firing the warmers early. She flags it, adjusts the string light dimmer schedule, gets a thumbs-up emoji in reply.

Back at the arch. An anthurium listing to one side. She straightens it. AQI: 148. Dipped back to orange. She'll take it.

6:27. Guests seated. Chilled towels distributed. Misting fans angled wide. The sun is low enough that the saguaro shadows stripe the aisle. The light is amber and soft through the haze, and the photographer is shooting from three angles at once. The smoke does something to sunsets out here. She knows this. She books accordingly.

6:31. The bride walks. The ceremony runs eleven minutes and forty seconds. The couple cries. The guests cry. Nobody passes out. The officiant says by the power vested in me and 146 people applaud in 108-degree heat and the couple kisses and she lets a breath go, long, her chest loosening against fabric stiff with dried sweat, the air thick and warm and tasting of mesquite smoke and the champagne already circulating on trays she'd positioned at the exit rows.

The couple is happy. The photos will be gorgeous. The groomsman makes it back for the first dance, a little pale, IV tape still on his forearm under his jacket sleeve.

At 9:47, while the guests dance in the cooled tent and the generator hums at 51kW, she sits in her car and the AC hits her arms and her neck and the damp fabric goes cold against her skin. She pulls up next Saturday's forecast. Tucson. Outdoor ceremony. A hundred and fifty guests.

She opens a new file.