The West Valley had enjoyed its few years of encampment-free respite, but hard times had returned virtually every freeway on-ramp and underpass to its former squalor. Brad knew from personal experience that the sheer scope of the problem had anesthetized the public to suffering in plain sight. He himself had handed out money or sandwiches here and there but had never gotten out of the car to speak to anyone until the day he met William. West Valley Watch followers were now taking anesthetized to the next level, viewing the unhoused as a subhuman, drug-addled nuisance. And Wendy, whether or not she grasped the ramifications, continued to stir a combustible pot, painting with broad strokes that emboldened accusation and treated investigation like a formality. Tonight, Brad’s goal was to pursue the very thing Facebook ranters avoided at all costs — going out in the world and learning about a situation before bloviating like an authority. He felt himself getting more nervous, which, in a strange way, made him feel more alive.

Pulling up and parking just east of the Shoup overpass, he saw a grab bag of tents, shopping carts, sleeping bags, trashed bicycles, and cardboard boxes on either side of the street. Engaging with campers on the side where he parked seemed like the logical place to start. There were maybe ten people strewn along the sidewalk, some in various stages of sleep, others mumbling or staring into space, and two men sharing a bottle. The closer Brad got, the more intense the smell of urine, and bodies that probably hadn’t been washed in more days than their minds could remember. This wasn’t a surprise to the doctor, but what did take him aback were the expressions of the people watching him. He wasn’t wearing a uniform and smiled when he said hi, but fear was the common denominator on the faces of everyone who wasn’t asleep, or completely out of it.

“My name’s Brad,” he told them. “I’m not from the government or anything. Just a doc.” He held up his bag as proof, which did nothing to assuage their wariness. “Do any of you know this guy William? Wild hair? Preppie clothes? Motorcycle boots? I found him by a dumpster on Valley Circle, he was hurting pretty bad. I was wondering how he’s doing.”

A couple of people shrugged and shook their heads. The rest just stared at him.

Perhaps his trip to the store would be the key to moving things along. He reached in his backpack and began pulling out items. “Anybody hungry?” he asked, holding up a bunch of energy bars.

The group remained hesitant until one of the women tiptoed toward him, grabbed a bar out of his hand, and ran back to her shopping cart. This prompted a few of the others to come over and collect. One who didn’t was a striking, thirty-something Black woman he saw staring at him. Her body was wrapped in blankets, but her steely gaze cut through him like a scalpel. She wasn’t ready to get up, so he decided to bring the goods to her, offering a cheerful smile as he moved forward. “I’ve got chia bars and chocolate chip granola. What can I get you?”

The woman shook her head and smirked. “Latest Jesus, come to save us?”

“Just here to help. Energy bar?”

“Seriously? Gonna fix us with toy food, are you?”

“I’ll change up the spread next time. Would you like some?”

“Knock yourself out.”

She held out her hand and Brad gave her three bars. “I’m Brad, by the way.”

“Copy. Our last Jesus was . . . Marty, I think.”

“And you are . . .?”

“Tired. Really fucking tired.” She dropped the bars in her backpack and rolled over to go to sleep.

“Excuse me. Do you need any medical attention? Is anything bothering you?”

“Besides you?”

“Sorry, I’ll be out of your hair. How about a toothbrush or toothpaste before I go?”

“I’m good. I’m Laila. Good night.” She didn’t bother to look up.

“It was nice to meet you, Laila.”

Brad went back to the others, who embraced his hygiene accessories with more enthusiasm. One of the mumblers, a rail-thin older man with a long white beard, lurched forward for a toothbrush, nearly stumbling to the ground before Brad caught him. He held his head, appearing to be dizzy. Brad slowly guided him down to the sidewalk and sat beside him. The man’s parched lips pointed to severe dehydration, prompting the doctor to grab a bottle of water out of his bag and coax it into him. Brad waited patiently until half the bottle was finished, then took out the blood pressure machine he’d thrown in the bag at the last minute. He explained to the man that dehydration could lead to hypertension, so he wanted to get a blood pressure reading in case medication was necessary.

“Am I dying?” the man asked.

“No, sir. You just need some fluids. My name’s Brad. What’s yours?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Only me. You don’t have to say if you don’t want to.”

“You seem all right. They call me Kitch.”

The others looked on, some eating the energy bars, others ripping the packaging off their toothbrushes to partake of some long-awaited oral care. The more time he spent with Kitch, the less threatening his presence seemed to them. Kitch’s blood pressure turned out to be elevated, at 130 over 90, but Brad told him that could change once the water and nutrients from the energy bar got into his system. He moved the old man to a sorry-looking lawn chair and told him to sit tight for a bit. In the meantime, he offered his services to the others, checking throats, taking temperatures, cleaning wounds, assuring them it was all free. Little by little, a few in the group said they had headaches, or wanted their temperatures taken, or needed ointments for various cuts and bruises. One of the men called into a tent, and two women emerged, one badly in need of cold medication, the other sporting an angry skin rash.

Some of the campers were more amenable to being examined than others, but in under an hour, Brad managed to check in with all ten before remonitoring Kitch’s blood pressure. Many of them complained about their feet, which were in terrible shape: chafed, calloused, and blistered. Brad made a mental note about finding a way to bring warm water to these people so they could soak and get relief. The next time he took Kitch’s blood pressure his numbers were down to normal. Brad told him to keep drinking.

“You mean water, right?” Kitch said, grinning ever so slightly.

“That is exactly what I mean. You get a little stronger, we’ll start talking about what you mean.” He handed the man another bottle.

Kitch thanked him, as did a few of the others. Brad said he was glad to help, and that he would be back in a few days to check on them. Then he heard the wail of a lone saxophone coming from across the street, his cue to introduce himself to a new sidewalk full of patients.