My father, a drug fiend, regularly dealt to people such as these. Addicted, desperate men with nothing to look forward too other than their next high.

They would rip my dad off, and come back later that day for another hit.

Cops were never called. Children’s protection was never called. My father simply carried a tire iron, informing me that he would ‘bop them on the head’ if they got out of hand.

An hour ago I waked past a derelict house with three such people squatting outside. As we made eye contact, years of fear flooded back to me.

I ran.