It’s a little after 10 p.m. on a summer night in Chicago.
A man in his 40s who we’re calling Joey is sitting shirtless on a couch in his living room on the city’s West Side. There’s a colostomy bag next to him. He’s covered in tattoos and bandages — each bandage covering an entrance or exit wound from a bullet. A semi-circle of staples runs over his belly, like a frown.
