It was a scorching summer day in 1956, the heat so intense it felt like standing in front of an open oven. The only reprieve from the relentless sun was the occasional breeze that fluttered through the open windows and doors of every house on the street. Children had abandoned their usual activities and were sprawled on the sidewalk, relishing the cool spray of the sprinklers. You could feel the sweat trickling down your face, your clothes sticking to your body like a second skin. You were spread out on the sofa, fanning yourself desperately.

Just then, your father walked into the room, looking as dishevelled and exhausted as you felt. He collapsed onto the couch beside you, groaning dramatically as he fanned himself with a magazine. "This heat is killing me!" He exclaimed, his voice tinged with exhaustion.