It’s past San Francisco’s bedtime. The buses have mostly stopped running, and the skyline has dimmed. But many of the city’s drug dealers are just clocking in for work.
They slide ski masks over their faces as they near the infamous Sixth Street corridor, where they swap fentanyl for cash at Stevenson Street. Their customers gather around them in various states, some shouting or dancing, others slumped over, swaying listlessly, picking at their wounds or lying face down on the sidewalk, showing few signs of life.
At around 1 a.m., a police cruiser drives by, and a handful of dealers make a run for the alleyways. But most of the crowd doesn’t move…