In Houston, where I live, my favorite supermarket is located near a halfway house. Its residents dot the neighborhood, and one has a regular place outside the market. He's a damaged person, confined to a wheelchair, and he spends a lot of time staring at the ground. Sometimes, though, I see him in conversation with the security guard. He's not too damaged to have a life.

What kind of life? It's a mystery to me, and I wonder about it often. There must be things he likes, little treats, and he must have some kind of social world complete with intrigues, slights, and a complicated pecking order. But life in a wheelchair looks hard, certainly because of restriction and dependency, perhaps also because of discomfort and/or shame. Are his consolations restricted to drink and drugs? Does he read? Can he read? What does the future look like to him?

His is, I’m sure, not an easy life. But is it also an unjust life – one that, in a more just society, would be different and better? Has his government failed him by allowing him to live as he does?