I tell the man using a power chair working the front desk at the Advocacy Society I'm about to be living in my car next month while I apply for disability, is it possible to see a social worker today?  "No," he says good naturedly.  "You can phone and leave a message."  I've already done that, and somebody who works in the field said I should come in person.  "Are you getting the run around?"  

Everybody I talk to reacts like this is normal and expected.  Being homeless because you're disabled shouldn't be so common it's expected.

The lavender bushes outside the next office are full of honeybees. Somebody nearby has hives. View Street, surrounded by brick apartment towers. Probably on a rooftop somewhere. Victoria, city of flowers, could produce some lovely honey, with the potential for orange soda pop residue from cans in the trash, discarded McDonald's apple pie crusts, rotting windfall apples in back yards. That's normal for bees. They'll eat anything sticky and drink out of public fountains. My sister texts, "That's good, those suckers are disappearing."  The honey probably isn't the point, reviving the bee population is.

She says she was on View Street when a Labrador fell out of the sky and hit the pavement at her feet.  Leapt off a third floor rooftop.  The dog died in her arms while its owner ran down three flights of stairs, too late.  It's a beautiful city, and a sad one.

A social worker calls, she can't help.  She's stern.  I know they have to be, but I wish somebody fucking cared.  I would care.