It’s a dark and drizzly January afternoon in Vancouver 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.

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