Spotted while walking Woolly in a 'nice' neighbourhood this morning: a kid slumped next to an Italian restaurant's back door, the ground beneath him carpeted with used syringes.
I wouldn't have even seen him if it wasn't for the restaurant owner yelling at his daughter to call an ambulance, while trying to shake the kid awake.
The journalist in me, the one desperate to uncover the truth in any situation, wanted to hang around and find out if he'd ODed. Fortunately, the humanitarian shoved her aside and, after ensuring the Italians didn't need any assistance, I averted my eyes and willed my legs to carry me away from there as quickly as possible.
Sure as hell ain't in Kansas any more, Dorothy...