They are rolling a dying man on a stretcher out of the Maple Hotel. He looks to be about 60 years old, unshaven, wild grey curls, filthy white socks. Electrodes are patched to a hairless chest and a monitor seismographs the agonal beatings of a beaten-down heart. The tattoo on the patient’s right forearm reads KILL TO LIVE.
“What have you got here?” I ask one of the EMTs as he sheds his antiviral poncho to reveal a crisp blue uniform beneath. “This is the Downtown Eastside,” he replies. “What do you think we’ve got?”
