it was hotter than hell the day daniel larusso moved into south seas apartments, the kind of valley heat that stuck to your skin like glue. he hadn’t even finished hauling the last of the boxes into their new place before his ma had already made friends with two neighbors and invited him to take a look around the complex.

“get some fresh air,” she’d said, like the smog wasn’t practically visible from their window.

so, he wandered.

the pool was kind of a joke, as freddy, his neighbour, had remarked; a sorry, cracked thing half-filled and buzzing with bugs. the laundry room looked haunted. but out near the edge of the parking lot, framed by the rusting gate and a drooping jacaranda tree, there was a basketball hoop — crooked, but still standing. and under it, a girl.