Chris is a family man. His fondest memories are of the times he and his siblings, cousins and father worked at his grandmother’s thriving board and care business in San Diego. After years of turbulent relationships, addiction, prison, health issues and heartache, all he wants is to be able to have his twin daughters stay with him during visitations. He has battled back the drug addictions, but still struggles with PTSD from all the violence he witnessed in prison and on the streets. That, and betrayal by family and spouses keep him emotionally fragile, but he has housing now and is determined to get his twin daughters back into his life.

Topher, 48, aka Snake, sits on the pavement in the shade behind an old Single Room Occupancy (SRO) hotel in the Gaslamp, pouring alcohol on a pile of paper. Next to him, Otis, 84, is sipping a beer talking about Whitney Houston. Topher grew up in San Diego, got married, had a great job, then lost the job and the marriage. He found a cheap room at a downtown SRO, then after the pandemic he and several others were evicted. He was attacked with a wrench after only four months. He wears that wrench like a talisman against future attacks.

When Moses first ended up on the streets five years ago, people thought he was a push over because he was quiet and didn’t fight back when people robbed or assaulted him. “I felt like I was painted in blood and dropped off in the middle of the Amazon forest in the middle of the night.” Moses landed on the streets after discovering his wife was cheating on him. “Man, she took everything. I didn't even get a paperclip. She just threw me out on the street and moved in her boyfriend that night.” He credits the constant support and encouragement from his daughters with giving him the fortitude to not only survive, but to become a support for others.

Quietly sipping hot coffee and reveling in a fresh bear claw pastry, Mike waited his turn to get a hot shower courtesy of the portable shower unit parked behind St. Paul’s Church, courtesy of the Voices of Our City Choir. The 29-year-old Ohio native carries an umbrella to ward off the coming rain. He said it was a lot easier to deal with than the blizzards of snow he grew tired of in Ohio and then later in upstate New York. All of that was in sharp contrast to the heat he endured on his multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan while serving in the U.S. Army as a cook.

A second generation San Diegan, Aaron grew up in Pacific Beach. Both his parents were junkies, he said, but his father got sober before Aaron was born, hoping to persuade his mother to do the same. But it didn’t work. When Aaron was about a year old, his mother started taking him with her to drug deals. “Her rationale was, ‘Who’s going to shoot the lady with the baby?’ That was her mentality,” Aaron said.

Matt Masloski, 37, keeps photos of his two children in his wallet. They live with their mother in Nebraska, from where he moved to San Diego five years ago for a new start. He was shocked by the number of people living on the street. “There’s new people every day,” he said. “Fentanyl has hit the streets at an alarming rate,” he said. “Since COVID it’s blown up. It’s everywhere.” There were times, he said, when it was impossible to find any other drugs on the street, even meth. In the last two years alone he’s lost close to 30 friends to fentanyl-related overdoses, and the trend shows no signs of stopping, he said.

Originally from Okene, Oklahoma, Chris said he was the middle child, but lost track since he was in foster care since the age of three. In fact he was in 16 different homes before he aged out of the system. He learned construction in prison and on the job. He doesn’t remember a lot of dates, but one stands out. On June 17, 2016 he was shot by a Los Angeles police officer with bean bags. Chris spent 28 days in a hospital ICU unit. When he was released he was confined to a wheelchair due to the injuries.