This post is part of a series called Miyamoto in Haiti I step into a dark, small bedroom. I hear my partner’s feet behind me. The room’s windows and doors are covered by thick drapes, hindering any light from entering the room. The bare concrete floor is wet, but the heat is edging towards unbearable. I feel it on my skin. The temperature must be somewhere close to 100 degrees (40 in Celsius) with 90% tropical humidity. Sweat runs down my back, drenching my shirt. Burning charcoal lingers in the air with an undertone of old sweat. The room is…