Helping Gavin.
Saturday February 19, 2022 at 4:52 p.m. Downtown Seattle at the corner of 4th and Marion.
When I met Gavin, I thought he was dead. Walking west on Marion Street, I stopped about 15 feet from the Fourth Avenue intersection. He was sprawled on his back in the vestibule of the YMCA, his legs bent like a frog’s, hands red and swollen — heroin, probably — his neck arched unnaturally until his head touched the tile stair, his eyes open, but not blinking. He was skinny. Pants stained and dirty, hair long and matted. His cheekbones were like mountain ridges, his cheeks, hollow valleys.
“Will, is he alive?”
“I don’t know. I can’t tell.” He stood about six feet from me on the sidewalk near the curb, Friedrich next to him on leash. We’d just gotten off the bus, returning home after a day on Queen Anne dealing with house stuff.
I stepped closer, watching his chest. It moved up, then down.
“I think we should call the ambulance.” I dialed 911 and gave the operator our location info, then turned my attention back to him.
“Hello?” I said. “Are you okay?”
His face shifted and his eyes finally blinked. A whisper passed his lips, dry and scratched. He tried to lift his head.
“How you doing, buddy? What happened? I called an ambulance for you, okay? I think…
