On the pavement of a bustling street through which thousands of commuters and tourists stride lie three men. One glugs on a can of Stella Artois, another slumps with his head bowed, barely awake, while a third devours a pastry offered by a generous passer-by.
Further along that road, a man shuts his eyes in front of a convenience store with a blue sleeping bag pulled up beyond his chin. In a dark doorway opposite, a pair in ripped tracksuits share puffs on a pipe filled with crack.
But this isn’t Los Angeles‘s infamous Skid Row or a back alley across the
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