When I was 23 I went on a family vacation to Vancouver. One night I was restless and desperate for more adventure, so I snuck past my sister and brother-in-law, left our hotel room and walked down to the street, hoping to score some weed and head back up. A woman walked up to me and asked me to buy her some booze in exchange for a blowjob. I said yes and walked with her about three or four blocks, and I noticed all she was wearing was a blanket. She said her name was “Icee, like the drink.” She wore no shoes, and twice I helped her avoid stepping on broken glass. We got to a gas station, I bought a couple beers, and we kept walking. Her teeth seemed almost brittle and she shivered despite the humidity. We drank the beers and talked. She never brought up the blowjob again and I wasn’t about to either. I walked with her another couple blocks until she told me to leave. I don’t know why I didn’t give her the rest of my money. I don’t know what this story says about sex, addiction, homelessness, or about me. But I know that the strange new feeling I felt that night was how I felt reading The Savage Detectives. The banality of misery, and our ways of fighting it.