The summer in Brooklyn is not heat or long days, it is a series of noises created by unnatural agents. It is an old sound effects tape amplified through stadium speakers, sound waves bouncing between low-rise apartment buildings. The mundane drama of squeaking car tires. The half-hum, half-roar of a truck as it pulls away after dropping off boxes of toothbrushes at the Walgreen's. The pair of gunshot jolts of a truck's trailer passing over a loose sewer grate. The erratic rattling of a window-mounted air-conditioning unit. The complaining sigh of cars quickly passing by the nearest intersection. The noise of the floorboards in the apartment above, like a slowed-down clown's horn. A voice projected through the call-box speaker at ground level.