Morning scene.

Two ambulances and a police car in front of _______ Hotel on Hastings Street. Crouched in front, low on the wet sidewalk, is a man, face twisted as he recounts his grief to another who has come to his side. His mouth opens in a sob, in a howl, as his pocked skin reddens with the fear and anger rushing through him right now. And I read the story through the window of the bus, my heart recognizing the death of another in a single room some floors above. And the fear of this man on the street, wrapped up in the loss of his friend is the realization that this happens to every user in these dingy hotels. This could happen to him next. An overdose, a stabbing, a slow death from blood poisoning or hepatitis. He is there on the pavement sick with his loss, caught by a fear, tired of this life. Hunched close to the street, his friend reaches an arm round his shoulders. Tuesday, 8:00 am.

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