As soon as he left the halfway house, Nick looked up DC Cretu’s non-profit on his phone. It was an address in Highland Park, the part of the neighborhood hipsters hadn’t invaded yet. Bars on the windows were a common sight, and there were more taquerias with a “C” health rating in the window than places serving gourmet sausages and prohibition-era cocktails.
The thought and care DC put into making huts for the homeless didn’t extend to his own house. The yard was a scrabble of dirt and patches of yellow grass. Chipped paint covered an exterior that even in the dark testified to its dry rot. The side yard was a mess of plywood, roofing, siding and paint. Based on the condition of the house and the part of town it was in, DC was renting at a dirt cheap rate, or he’d inherited the house from
