One person will recognize the first paragraph from their own life. The rest is my initial attempt to convey the hellish conditions of the cassion.

The sweat pooled on Aedan's hatless head. The reservoir crested his brow then, with gentle deliberation, rolled down his forehead and poured off his nose in one long, stringy drip. The perspiration seeped into the river muck between his gumboots.

He tried to summon the chill winds plunging down the river overhead. A cruel and icy whip to those working the docks, he sought its refreshing embrace. But as he returned to his own labors, the humid air clinging at his wiry frame reminded him of the city in August. A ripe peach and its sweet juices never seemed farther away as he wiped the salty residue from the corners of his mouth. There would be cool lager flowing in every beer garden along First Avenue--but none of that now for his parched throat.