I caught the bus to the [Birmingham] city centre in 1985, climbed the stairs and the pungent aroma of glue hit my nostrils. There was a young man sitting on the back seat with a plastic bag over his nose and mouth—breathing in and out. I started a conversation with him about everyday things. A few stops before city centre, I asked if he would like to be photographed. He happily obliged. As the years passed, I often wonder what happened to him.