In 1956, Harper Lee was cold and hopeless. Seven years earlier, she had moved to New York City with a dream: to become a writer. She found a cold-water flat on York Avenue and 82nd Street. No hot water, no heat. To bathe, she boiled water on the stove. To survive, she worked as a reservations clerk for Eastern Airlines and BOAC, writing at night when she had any energy left. For seven years, she sent out stories religiously. Nobody wanted a single one. That Christmas, Lee woke up at her friends’