One evening, lying on the cool linoleum floor of the living room, the ceiling fan clicking its lazy circle, Leo heard the first cricket. Not the sport—the insect. A single, insistent chirp. It meant the heat was loosening its grip. The mangoes were gone from the shops. The school uniform hung ready on the back of his door.

The summer months for Australia were a fever dream of long light and salty skin. And as Leo drifted off, the eucalyptus trees casting long, sharp shadows across the lawn, he knew he would spend the rest of the year just waiting for December to come back around.

“Obviously,” Leo grinned.

That was the law of the land. While the rest of the world huddled by fireplaces and scraped frost from windshields, Leo’s world turned blindingly bright. The gum trees outside his window drooped, exhausted, in the 40-degree heat. The air tasted of eucalyptus, salt, and sunscreen. The backyard cricket pitch—a worn patch of grass with a wheelie bin for a wicket—was the center of the universe.

“Christmas lunch on the beach again?” his mum asked, handing him a pair of board shorts.