It was a hot January day. The plants and animals and people who had lost track of the time were preparing themselves for a joyous barbecue, while the quicker ones waited in their subterranean home-frigerators. The surface would be delicious right now, but few were reckless enough to go up and try to get some. These heat wave feasts happened once or twice every year, but the food was always gone by the time it was safe to resurface. No one knew for sure where it was going, but most assumed it was eating itself. If they had really thought about it, they’d see that such an explanation didn’t make sense, but it was too icky to think about too much, so they went back to their knitting instead.