RENO, Nev.–The wind cut through Reno City Plaza like a dull knife, making the candle flames shiver. They stood there anyway—priests, imams, rabbis, monks—murmuring prayers over names that most of the city never knew. Seventy-seven dead. Not in some far-off war, not a catastrophe—just in the slow, grinding death of being poor in a town that doesn’t see them.
Father Chuck Durante, voice steady but eyes tired, said, “This is the first year we are going in the right direction.”
A win, if you wanted to call it that. Last year, it was 135. This year, only 77. Progress, like a half-smoked cigarette in a puddle.
They read the names. They read the ages. Sixty-three men and fourteen women. Most went down hard—fentanyl, meth, the kind of things that happen when no one gives a damn.
Fourteen made it to natural causes, six got murdered, and four took themselves out. Two are mysteries, while nine are still waiting on an answer they’ll never hear.
The plaza isn’t for the dead, but for one night, it held them. Their names, at least.
Then, the candles burned out, and the city moved on.
The Old Blog in the Desert 