The hum of iridescent bulbs warms the night, with an occasional industrial whir casting sparks into the neon haze. These pockets of light are beacons for addicts. We scurry out of our holes after sleeping the day away. I round the corner and am shoulder checked into the wall. My hands grip around the man’s damp shirt as I catch his lifeless gaze. Tears stream down his face, but he is not present. I can smell the pain dripping off of his body.