He had been born into the Squamish First Nation, son of a hereditary chief and destined to be a leader of his people. Born with fetal alcohol spectrum disorder, the disabilities that he developed were minor compared to the effects people suffered from a full-blown fetal alcohol syndrome, but by fifteen it was clear that George would never sit as a chief of the Squamish First Nation. “We keep picking you up, George,” said the officer, his hands on his hips. He looked down at the swaying man. “You know this place is closed. It’s off limits.” The rain had finally cleared. George looked up at the slate-gray sky that pressed down on the City of Vancouver. For twenty years he had been wandering Vancouver’s streets in search of a comfortable place to sit and rest and watch people pass by. “Would you stand up, sir?” ordered the second officer. He was young, with close-cropped hair under a dark blue ball cap.
