Dodger led the way up the steps to the mission and into the large room that took up more than half the entry level. The open door and dirty windows let in barely enough of the mid-morning light to alleviate the darkness. Scattered bulbs burned feebly in a pathetic attempt to compensate, while the stench of despairing and broken humanity was strong. Inheritors of the miasma were scattered about the chamber, many slumped or curled in fitful sleep. Some sat silently on the rooms mismatched, battered furniture while others chattered in a steady stream, whether or not anyone was listening. The aged and the ageless in their filth partook of the mission’s charity alongside dissipated youth and ragged homeless. The mission’s occupants were a dirty and smelly lot, but only those obviously in the last stages of chip addiction looked malnourished. Moving solicitously among these refugees from the streets was a broad man in a dark suit. His shirtfront shone with the stark white of a Roman collar, marking him as a priest.