It’s a dark and drizzly January afternoon in Vancouver—an afternoon entirely typical of the British Columbian winter—and I’m sitting in a dimly-lit back-office with Eric, a regular user of methamphetamine.
Eric is 40 years old, articulate and unshaven, with a heaving mop of black and brown hair. A little over 12 months ago, his life fell apart. He had an apartment in the city and straddled two jobs, one in construction and another as a session musician. Things were going well.
