âYou Are Always Just a Kiss Away From Me My Beautiful Boy.â
In Boston, thereâs a place known as âmethadone mile,â a stretch of city blocks lined with methadone clinics, needle exchanges, food pantries, and shelters for the unhoused. Every day, people come there full of hope, or desperation, or both. Theyâre searching for their loved ones who, while struggling with drug addiction, have gone missing. Annalisa Quinn follows a handful of these seekers, including a woman named Kristie, who is looking for her son: We trailed through the usual spots: the parking lot outside of the Woods Mullen womenâs shelter, outside the Mobil station with the locked bathrooms, and the church whose congregants step over prone bodies on their way to services. It seemed like everyone had seen Kody, or thought they had. He had been in the menâs shelter, maybe. On the corner, by the McDonaldâs. A woman working at a methadone clinic wasnât allowed to tell Kristie anything because of patient confidentiality rules, but she couldnât stand to watch her crying. Yes, heâd been here, she said. Two hours later, I saw him. A blue baseball cap and stringy hair, all angles.
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