There’s a kind of hot you only find in Brooklyn: a mix of exhaust, tar, trash, pizza, and perfume carried by the salty bay breeze. Every day we make our way to Owl’s Head Park, and sit in the shadow of the Verrazano Bridge, which looms overhead like a parade balloon. From my stroller I watch the freighters and barges slide across the water, implausible as bricks on ice. My mother remains silent, except to offer some animal crackers. At 4 p.m., the orange tour boat will pass and blow its horn, as it does every day, and we will begin up the hill, the bay breeze pushing us home.