It was the drug dealer. He was the reason dozens of cars were lined up in the middle of the street and around the block. Every Friday afternoon his customers would leave their cars running in the improvised drive-thru to run up the rickety staircase in the back alley.
Dave Funke shook his head in disgust. He had seen the apartment where everyone went to score. All of the chaos just added to feelings he could hardly put into words. How was he ever going to make a difference in this crime-infested, impoverished community?
