my iphone bleeps to pronounce itself dead as our worn-smooth flip-flops slap up the sidewalk. our neighbor drew, who sticks out like a sore sunburnt thumb in this very asian half of town, looks up at us. he is building his sons a skateboard ramp from pieces of home depot plywood. he wipes his face, which is spotted pink in the way that raw salami is, and grins hello. drew wears stained, yellow bandanas like he thinks he is a cowboy, but of course this isn’t true because he lives next door in a stuccoed-white four-bedroom house. there are also no cowboys in suburban chandler.

golden hour in this neighborhood means a glorious sunsetscape hidden away by sloping rooftops. it also means all twenty-nine upcycled water sprinklers spurt on at once. they are programmed to do so, but two of them miss their grassy targets and soak our flip-flopped feet instead. you say this is a fine occurrence because the lins next door are having new pavers put in, and the dust has just gotten everywhere. it’s true our legs are caked in the stuff. someone is always having new pavers put in, though you and i know the faulty sprinklers will never switch up—no, they have sprayed the dusty sidewalk now six years.