It was 1 a.m., three hours since I’d last felt my toes, and the four of us stood over a man who may have been dead.
“Are you okay under there?” Catherine asked the pile of blankets tucked away in a building alcove on the corner of 23rd and I St. NW in Washington, D.C. It was the type of spot where most pedestrians wouldn’t even know a homeless person was there.
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