101 degrees in the air; 105 on the runway. The plane oozed into Memphis, sludged to a halt at the gate. The pilot didn't even need to brake or afterburn; the plane was just exhausted.

We had to disembark quickly as the fuselage dissolved into the goo of the tarmac. (Boiling tarmac sounds a lot like molasses farts.)

I stepped outside the terminal and was gut-punched by a sunbeam. No one expects them to be violent -- all shiny and life-giving and featured on baby clothes and diapers and such -- but they don't even need to gang up on you; just one will jerky your ass.

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