Like a ghostly apparition the grey blanket covered figure was sitting upright on the wrought iron bench at seven thirty in the morning. Nothing moved. I walked by looking, horrified. How many empty apartments are there in the City of Boston. What has this man done to end up like this – sleeping in a park in ragged clothes with a blanket as a roof. Around him there were some empty plastic liquor bottles. A taller bottle was in a brown bag. A good night sedative at the end of a hot day on the streets of Dorchester. Welcome to Boston.