This is Bryan in the before times – before his dad died and the old ghosts came back, before he went back to using fentanyl to silence them. We’re talking in a cold, wet park where he’s collecting bottles, homeless and skinny and lost. He sends me on a mission to reach out to his ex on Facebook and get a photo of him from when he was healthy and loved, with a good job. His ex writes back to say she and her mom are crying to read my words, to hear from someone who has seen Bryan. She sends me several photos, some of the two of them that were his favourites, and asks if I could print a few out for him as a kind of Christmas present, in case I see him again. “I miss him so much. He’s my best friend,” she writes. “I’ll be here for him when he’s ready.” Bryan says he desperately wants off the street. But today in this park, with all his gear spread out on a bench and asking passers-by if they want to buy his bike, he’s smoking all the fentanyl he’s got to see if that makes him feel better.