The sun's been on you since seven. Sweat pools under the shell, runs down your temple, and stings your eyes — so you wipe it with a glove dirtier than your face. Your glasses fog. Your head feels thick and heavy. And you start doing what everyone does: pulling the hat off every twenty minutes just to feel air, ducking to the truck for thirty seconds of AC, counting down to a break that's still ninety minutes out.
And the usual fixes don't fix much. A cooling towel is warm and wet by 11. Evaporative pads dry out and turn into a soggy liner on your head. Vents only work if there's a breeze — and there's never a breeze when you need one. Cheap helmets dig a pressure ring into your forehead by lunch, so you loosen them, and then they slide every time you look down.
Most people just live with it — another shift finishing on empty, another headache by four, another summer where "drink more water" is the entire plan. It doesn't have to be the plan.