I don’t know why it’s different but it is. When I step over the threshhold of the facility that stores the frail old woman I visit, I’m surrounded by heat. Sometimes the thermostat reads upwards of 80 degrees, but it feels perfectly fine. Never too hot. 80 degree air in my own home feels almost oppressive. Like at any moment I’ll be driven to insanity if I don’t shed everything I’m wearing and dive in an icy pool. Maybe it’s a different heat made specially for the achy bones and muscles of those whose days are numbered. It’s “a dry heat” sort of nonsense perhaps. I don’t know why it’s different but it is. I don’t feel compelled to pull at the collar of my shirt and blow cool air down the neck hole like I would at home. I don’t feel the urge to race over to the thermostat and press the down button like a maniac until the humming stops, letting me know that soon the hot breath of the furnace will cease pushing its way up through the floor registers and pinning me in every corner of the house. When I’m in her small room and we’re chatting away, I just feel cozy. Like I want a warm cup of tea to wrap my hands around and a fleece blanket to drape over my lap like she does. I don’t know why it’s different but it is.