I opened my mouth to say something rational—about noise ordinances, about leases, about the fact that I had work in four hours—but what came out was: "Teach me."
It started as a hum—low, guttural, vibrating through the shared plaster like a second heartbeat. Then the drums. Not a stereo. Not a TV. Actual hide-and-skin drums, the kind that make your sternum ache.
I pressed my ear to the cold wall. "Sammm," I whispered, because that was the only name on the mailbox downstairs, written in black marker with three deliberate m's. Sammm.