The air was heavy. It stuck to your skin and carried the sounds of sweet Summer music from one corner of the courtyard, smoothly into Apt 330, where Aidy stood in her tiny kitchen, stirring a huge bowl of her famous grits. She’s swaying her hips to the distant music floating into the open window. Humming along to “Every little thing is going be alright,” when the front door swings open. Miriam stu...