Mike lived at the Palmera Aldea public project housing. Rickety fences imprisoned the gravelly property, a patchwork of crab grass and weeds struggling from the cracked earth that separated the faded brick building from its parking lot. People milled around the pockmarked streets surrounding it, talking with each other in small groups. Homeless drug addicts sit with their backs leaning against the surrounding vacant buildings, passing out as they came down. Out of the corner of my eye, a spark lit up as someone took a hit on their meth pipe.

Palm Village seems an ironic name for such a desolate looking place.

A group of young Hispanic kids watched as my car jostled into the parking lot before I came to a stop next to a red Impala, shutting the engine off. I sat in my car for a few...

Please subscribe to keep reading.