Page 2 of Clear Path

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GAP Mile 148.8, Downtown Pittsburgh

Bodhi King stood and slung his backpack over his shoulder. Then he leaned in through the open door and across the minivan’s passenger compartment to pat his friend on the arm. “Thanks for the lift, Saul.”

“You got it, buddy. Still don’t understand why you can’t take normal vacations.”

Bodhi smiled.

“I’m serious,” Saul persisted. “Whose idea of relaxation involves walking 150 miles?”

“Mine,” Bodhi told him.

Saul shook his head. “I’m glad you decided against camping on the trail, at least. That could’ve been dangerous.”

Bodhi gave him a bemused look. “Dangerous? I doubt it. Possibly uncomfortable—to some.”

“Right. Who needs comfort?” Saul cracked.

Bodhi would have been happy to rough it, to hang his camping hammock between two trees and be rocked to sleep bythe early spring breeze. Instead, he’d decided to stop for meals and shelter in some of the trail towns lining the Great Allegheny Passage. After recent trips to two small towns—one in the mountains of Vermont, one on the Emerald Coast of Florida—he’d become attuned to the unique challenges facing overlooked rural communities and wanted to offer some small measure of support and solidarity as he traveled.

Now, Saul went on. “But I’m serious. It’s not safe to sleep on the trail.”

Bodhi cocked his head. “What are we talking about here—a twisted ankle? Poison oak? A bear?”

Saul frowned, shaking his head. “I’m just saying … some portions of the trail may have been taken over.”

“Taken over by what?”

“Not what. Whom.” Saul’s voice dropped. “The city’s made a concerted effort to empty the encampment at the trailhead. Apparently, all they accomplished was relocating the homeless further along the trail.”

“Not having a home doesn’t make a person a threat.” He paused. “In fact, if anyone’s endangered, it’s probably the unhoused people living on the trail.”

“How do you figure?”

“They’re more isolated and less visible than they were before. And they’re further away from accessible social services, shelter, and medical care so they’ll be vulnerable to hunger, illness, and the elements.”

Saul drew his brows together and screwed up his face in thought. “I never looked at it that way. Still, promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I always take care, Saul.”

“You have a first-aid kit?”

“Of course.”

“Do you carry Narcan in it?”

Bodhi blinked. “Well … no.”

He’d prepared his first-aid kit in response to any dangers he expected to encounter: bee stings, splinters, wounds, fevers. It hadn’t occurred to him that he could come across someone overdosing on opioids.

Saul popped his glove compartment open and gestured inside. “Take a couple.”

Bodhi studied the boxes of naloxone nasal spray. “Why do you have these?”

Saul laughed bleakly. “It’s a massive problem. The morgues are full of folks who overdosed—especially on fentanyl. These sprays are an easy way to prevent deaths.”

Forensic pathologists, unlike most professionals, hated nothing more than a boom in business.

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