Twenty-four passive methods from dogtrots, domes and 2,400-year-old wind towers — each with its cost, its degrees, and the honest limit where it fails. Written by a builder with thirty-one years in places where summer is the enemy.
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“Heat you never let in costs nothing to remove.”
The only rule worth memorizingEverything in it is either a measurement, a piece of geometry, or a shopping list.
Silas Warren spent thirty-one years building and repairing houses in places where summer is the enemy — Tucson and Yuma first, then a long stretch on the Gulf Coast, then eleven years consulting on retrofits from Sacramento to Savannah.
Somewhere in the middle of that he got curious enough about the old buildings that he went and stood inside them. The wind towers at Yazd. The vaulted mud roofs at New Gourna. A dogtrot near Natchez that a family had lived in for four generations before anyone on that road had a compressor. He measured what he could measure and wrote down the rest.
When you get the geometry right, the machine runs on nothing. When you get it wrong, you buy a compressor and you feed it for the rest of your life.
So the twenty-four methods in this handbook are not folklore. Each one is a piece of building physics that happens to be old. The physics comes first and the history second, because the history is only useful if you can carry it home and install it.
Every chapter is built on the same six-part frame. At A Glance — a four-cell strip: what it costs, how long it takes, how many degrees it's worth, which climates it suits. The Building — where it comes from and what the original builders were solving. The Physics — why it works, in plain arithmetic, no calculus. The Build — materials with 2026 prices, dimensions, and the order of operations, written the way one person talks another through a job at their elbow. The Honest Limit — what it doesn't do, where it fails, how people install it backwards, and the point at which you stop and call somebody licensed. The Numbers — setup cost, degrees returned, annual dollars, payback.
That's why three full pages of the front matter are given over to The 68° Promise, Stated Honestly — a plain accounting of what your climate can and cannot deliver, using your city's July diurnal swing, before you have spent a dollar. Albuquerque gets the literal claim. Houston does not, and the book says so on page 15.
One unshaded four-by-five-foot west window adds as much heat to a room as a 1,000-watt space heater running on high. Most people fight it with a compressor and cover it with a curtain, which does nothing.
None of them gets you to a comfortable house alone. They stack — shade first, because heat you never let in costs nothing to remove.
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The book asks you to write down four numbers before you start. These are the notes that come back.
“I did the First Weekend exactly as written. Exterior screen on four west windows, pulled the insulation back off the soffits, box fan in the high window at nine at night. My ceiling went from 96 to 81 on a comparable afternoon. Eighteen years in this house and nobody ever told me my soffits were packed solid.”
“The Honest Limit section is the reason I trust the rest of it. Every method tells you where it fails before it tells you what it costs. I skipped two chapters because of it and saved myself a trench I would have regretted.”
“Page 15 is where he tells you what your own climate will and will not give you. Gulf South, so half this book is not for me and he says so himself. I did the shade chapters and the radiant barrier. July bill down about forty percent and the upstairs is finally usable.”

We build and document single-story homes for hot country — long, low, metal-roofed houses on open land, where the sun is the largest thing on the site plan and the electric bill follows the roof.
Everything we publish starts from the same conviction: a house is a machine for managing heat, and most American houses are badly tuned machines that people pay to run anyway. Comfort is a design decision, and it gets made once — on paper, or on the west elevation, or on a Saturday with a roll of screen.
The $0 Cooling Handbook is our first edition, written by Silas Warren and published under Dry Season Press. Thirty-one years of building in Tucson, Yuma and the Gulf Coast; eleven more consulting on retrofits from Sacramento to Savannah; and a lot of time standing inside old buildings with a thermometer, finding out why they work.
24 passive design methods · 139 pages · instant PDF download
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It is a real number with a climate attached, and the book spends three pages saying exactly where it holds. In a dry climate with a large day-to-night swing — 25 degrees or more — the stacked methods will hold a well-built house between 68 and 74 degrees through a 100-degree afternoon with no compressor running. That is the desert Southwest, the intermountain West, inland California, the high plains.
In a swing of 18 to 25 degrees you hold the low 70s overnight and the high 70s at four in the afternoon. Under 18 degrees with high humidity, the mass and night-flush half of the book loses most of its power, and the honest expectation is cutting cooling load by 40 to 65 percent — a real and large result, but not 68 degrees in August in Louisiana. You get that accounting on page 15, before you have spent a dollar.
A video shows you a method. It cannot hand you the eave-sizing arithmetic for your latitude, the inlet-outlet ratio, the 2026 price of perforated radiant barrier per square foot, or the paragraph telling you the four climates where the method backfires.
The handbook is the working document — measurements, geometry, and shopping lists in the order you do them, plus a ledger to keep score. It's what you carry into the attic, not what you watch on the couch.
No. Fourteen of the twenty-four methods are retrofits you can do to a standard American stick-framed house with a pitched roof and an attic. Six are landscape or exterior work. Four are only practical during new construction or a gut renovation, and those are marked clearly in the At A Glance strip on the chapter's first page so you don't read three pages before finding out.
The dogtrot chapter is not asking you to build a dogtrot. It's asking you to understand what the breezeway was doing, and to reproduce that pressure difference with two windows and a hallway you already own.
Because the book's own arithmetic makes the price silly to argue about. The First Weekend costs $40 to $125 in materials and typically takes six to ten degrees off the peak indoor temperature, with a first-season bill reduction in the $120 to $400 range. A handbook that pays for itself in the first afternoon should not be priced like a course.
$17 is the launch price for the first edition. It goes back to $27 when the promo ends.
A single PDF, 139 pages, delivered instantly through Gumroad after checkout. It opens on any phone, tablet, laptop or e-reader, and it prints cleanly if you'd rather have it on paper in the attic. Yours forever, no subscription.
Two thermometers, about $25 together: an infrared gun from any auto parts store, and a cheap indoor-outdoor unit with a min-max memory. That is what Chapter One assumes you own.
Several methods do involve work at height, confined attic spaces, structural loads, below-grade waterproofing, or electrical circuits. The book marks those plainly and tells you where to stop and hire a licensed professional. Codes and permit requirements vary by jurisdiction — verify yours before beginning any work.
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The First Weekend in this handbook costs $40 to $125 in materials and typically takes six to ten degrees off your peak indoor temperature. The book itself is $17 during launch.
Get the Handbook — $27 $17