JULY 2017 | SCENE 87 beachreads JAILBREAK By Sylvia Whitman which always impressed the hell out of any kid whose parents had just moved down from the North. By the middle of summer, B ACK IN THE DAYS WHEN HE CHEWED ORANGE BUBBLE GUM AND DREAMED OF BECOMING A FIREMAN, ADAM MILLER USED TO BE ABLE TO TELL THE TEMPERATURE BY THE TREE CRICKETS. THE HOTTER THE WEATHER, THE FASTER THEIR WINGS THROBBED. If you knew somebody whose mom was a nurse’s aide, you could borrow a watch with a second hand and figure out the degrees by adding 40 to the number of chirps in 15 seconds. After a while, you didn’t even need the math; you’d listen for a moment and then say 82,
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