He doesn’t want to talk.

The middle-aged black man is walking past the shuttered Lincoln Highway Fuel Food & Liquor store, waving off questions; he turns right, heading towards what looks like housing projects. But it is unclear if they are still occupied or if, like much of this town, they are boarded-up and empty.

He warns, kindly but sternly, not to follow as he disappears around the corner.

The service station-liquor store appears to have closed decades earlier; patches of cherry-red paint on the side of the building are peeling away. A makeshift altar is located along the wall, toward the back; it is lined with bottles of hard liquor, candles, a wilted red rose and the word “Love” spelled out with decals.

Nobody ever really moves in here. Nobody ever comes here except to pass on by; you either escape or die.

Read the full piece here: A fragile hope in Ford Heights