This endless heatwave. He wipes the back of his neck, scraping sweat and grit away with callused fingers. His T-shirt is soaked, the wet seams rubbing under his arms as he hauls another load of tiles to the roof.

“Fuck’s sake, Joe take your shirt off,” Paul laughs. “What are you hiding, a third nipple?”

Back in the van there’s water, shade, a fresh top. He changes quickly, eyes tight shut, but afterwards his hand still strays to his chest, to the spot over his heart where her name is tattooed. Summer, the daughter he no longer sees.