When I was a kid, reading undercover increased in the summer. It also required greater dedication.
With school out, I read whatever I wanted in great gulps (if only we could supersize reading instead of sodas). By bedtime, I was always, always, always at a place in the book where I simply could not stop reading. And so the book, flashlight, and I all disappeared under the covers. Covers that hid that tell-tale light from snooping parental units.
Yes, this happened all year round. But in the heat of summer, blankets were stifling. A mere sheet revealed too much light. And so I had a choice: would I be breathless for air or breathless for story?
The story always won.