![]() Maya slid into the back seat, his mind spinning with doubts. He was leaving and he didn’t know how long he’d be gone. He hadn’t taken down his tent, raised from the dirt by a wood pallet to let rats pass. Here, occasional cars whipped up gusts of wind, their whistles morphing into the voices of people he had let down.Ī car pulled up alongside a chain-link fence that separated a service road from Maya’s camp. Once a constant roar of traffic below his makeshift home, the freeway stood empty in the waning days of spring 2020 as the first wave of coronavirus tore through California. By the lone tent under the cement overpass, just visible from the Hollywood Freeway in Los Angeles, Fernando Maya waited with several backpacks stuffed with clothes, electronics and food.
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