It has been a hard fall “from Oak Bay to Rock Bay” in the past year and a half for this woman (who I’ll call J for now because I’ve somehow misplaced her name). She was evicted from her apartment on Estevan Avenue while in hospital in the grips of a severe mental breakdown. This is her first experience with homelessness. So far, she’s not a fan, having ended up with lice and shigella in rapid succession after staying at local shelters. “I have no idea how to be homeless. There should be classes on this,” says J. “I’m thinking of placing an ad: ‘Middle-aged woman looking for an old biker for roommate.’ I’m thinking of trying to go to treatment just to see if I can get housing out of it.” J says her drug use is strictly recreational – “I’m from the 80s; I use drugs because I want to, not because I have to” – but she can’t see any other clear path off of the street. I didn’t have the heart to tell her how hard it actually is to get into treatment, let alone be assured of housing at the end of it.