PART 3   I stared at the hospital bracelet in the lunchbox until the letters of my own name blurred.

day, we found a transitional housing program run by a former social worker named Denise Carter. She met Walter in person, looked him in the eye, and did not speak to him like a problem.

“We have a room opening next week,” she said.

Walter gripped his hat.

“A room?”

“A small one,” Denise said. “But it locks. It has a bed. Case manager on-site. Meals. Job continue reading …