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.