I once witnessed, without meaning to, the unspooling of a young man into homelessness. I was in Spain, on the Camino, tucked into a hamlet on the side of a sweeping farm. That night, as we were making dinner in the communal kitchen, my cousin and I noticed someone sipping a beer, no food in sight, staring into the floor. My cousin spooned pasta onto three plates and beckoned him outside. As we sat on grass still warm from the sun, we began that tentative dip into conversation. This traveler, we’ll call him Sam, was from Limerick. His words were laden in an Irish accent, so thick at times th...