Ninety-three degrees in the valley, the Cascades hazed out, tomatoes still green on their cages. She is washing canning jars. Mending a winter coat at an eighty-one-degree kitchen table. On Thursday she smelled woodsmoke from a chimney nobody has lit since March. Her neighbor brings nectarines and declines to ask the second question. Her daughter calls, careful.

In Yuki Tanabe's new story, fifty years of learned seasonal cues — light angle, air pressure, the smell before rain — go on reporting from a climate that has moved out from under them.

In Montana, a smoke advisory lifts and the sky is clean by afternoon. The river isn't. Eight days of trapped heat soak into low water and stay there, and nothing about the surface shows it. This story is set on the Boulder River near Big Timber in 2038, where a fishing guide with a thirty-dollar thermometer has four messages on his phone and no state closure to point to. The water looks fine. It reads sixty-nine point four at eight-thirty in the morning.