"It's July. In Pennsylvania." John tries to sound patient and keep the edge out of his voice, but he started getting a headache last twenty minutes ago, and the continued blast of too-warm air from the open window and the persistent itch of sweat trickling down his neck into his t-shirt is driving him slowly crazy.
"Yeah," Rodney says, sounding defeated and sulky and not much older than six.
"Any cooler down there?" John says, amused despite his slightly cranky wriggle on the overly warm couch.
"I'll have you know that cold air sinks," Rodney declares with an impressive amount of volume, especially considering he's lying flat on the carpeted living room floor about a foot away.
"Then why is there snow on top of mountains?" John argues, tipping his beer to catch the last few almost-cold drops in his mouth.
Rodney starts babbling about pressure zones and geological shifts and then gets distracted into recounting a childhood memory of a freak snow storm in August, then a bitter diatribe against the ridiculousness of a Batman villain not only being called Mr. Freeze, but by then being played by the governor of California, of all people.
By this time, the breeze feels like it's cooled (helped no doubt by the frequent application of cold beer and a short wash cloth fight) and John stops thinking about his headache, so he slides off the couch to curl next to Rodney on the carpet and lazily nap away the time until dinner.