The New Yorker, November 18, 2013

Last year, while doing book research in New Haven, Connecticut, we met a social worker who told us about a twenty-eight-year-old man with diabetes. He had been living in a vacant, boarded-up house; to avoid being seen there, he entered through the marshes behind the home. His shoes were full of holes, but he couldn't afford to replace them. He also sometimes went several days without fresh food. As a result of his bad diet, he struggled to control his diabetes; after a lifetime of poor insulin control, he was starting to lose circulation in his feet.
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