That last makes me both sad and sick to my stomach. Mike is homeless. He lives in a carport, basically, near D.A.J.'s house; she got to know him because she's a decent human being and because they both like cats.
Mike's cancer is probably really, really advanced. He's at County Giganto right now with lumps popping out all over and a whole lot of pain from a pathological fracture. And, since he has no money and no home and no resources (thanks, Governor Goodhair!), he'll probably die in pain and alone and without dignity. Hospice care in the homeless shelter doesn't exist, as far as I know.
Plus, he's got TB, which means...well, honestly, I don't know what it means. I don't know where he'll end up or what will happen to his pet cat or what on earth people in his situation do.
I wish I ruled the Universe. Things like this wouldn't happen. People would still be afraid and hurting, because you can't make that go away, but at least they wouldn't be worried about being turned out to die on the motherfucking street because the county cut funds for indigent health care.
Damn.
Just. . . damn.