A few months ago, I wrote about Paco.

I wrote about the clothes, the swagger, and the carefully constructed style that helped him maintain a sense of dignity while living on the streets of Santa Barbara.

I wrote about the armor he wore against a world that often treats homeless people as invisible.

What I did not fully explore was why competence mattered so much to him.

Or why that competence may have contributed to his death.

Paco often said the same thing whenever people expressed concern about him:

“I got this.”

He said it when people worried about his drinking.

He said it when friends raised concerns about fentanyl.

He said it when outreach workers suggested treatment, housing or other forms of assistance.

Sometimes he said the words directly.

Sometimes it appeared as a smile, a shrug or a quick change of subject.

The message was always the same.

He could handle things.

The confidence was not entirely misplaced.

One of the most important lessons outreach workers learn is that surviving on the street requires considerable skill.

People learn where they can sleep safely. They learn how to avoid dangerous situations. They learn how to navigate public spaces, police contacts, shelters, service systems, and the countless informal rules that shape daily life.

People who survive for years often do so because they have acquired practical knowledge that others lack.

Paco possessed that kind of knowledge.

He knew the streets.

He knew the rhythms of the city.

He knew who could be trusted and who could not.

Most important, he knew how to survive.

For years, those skills worked.

The same pattern existed in the world of drugs.

One thing that has struck me over the years is that conversations among longtime drug users often resemble conversations among skilled tradespeople discussing their craft.

I have listened to people compare the quality of different drugs. I have heard discussions about dosage, tolerance, sources, withdrawal, and the mistakes people made years earlier that taught them important lessons.

The conversations can sound remarkably similar to mechanics discussing engines or fishermen discussing weather conditions.

They are exchanging practical knowledge.

The underlying assumption is simple.

Experience matters.

For many years, that assumption was largely correct.

People who survived long enough often learned things that improved their chances of surviving longer.

They learned how to recognize danger.

They learned how much was too much.

They learned when something felt wrong.

The streets can be brutal teachers, but they do teach.

The problem is that fentanyl changed the lesson plan.

Over the last decade, fentanyl has transformed the landscape of drug use throughout California.

Outreach workers see the consequences. Emergency room staff see them. Paramedics see them. People living on the streets see them.

Almost everyone now knows someone who has overdosed.

Many know several people.

What is striking is that many of those who die are not inexperienced users.

They are veterans.

People with years or decades of experience.

People who survived earlier drug epidemics.

People who possessed real knowledge and real competence.

People who believed they understood the risks because, for a long time, they actually did.

Paco belonged to that generation.

When conversations turned toward fentanyl, he rarely sounded reckless. He sounded experienced.

That distinction matters.

He was not saying that nothing bad could happen.

He was saying that he knew what he was doing.

And in many respects, he did.

The tragedy is that the environment had changed.

Under older drug conditions, experience often increased safety. The lessons people learned through years of use frequently helped them avoid catastrophe.

Under fentanyl conditions, that relationship has become far less reliable.

Potency can vary dramatically.

A dose that appears familiar may be anything but.

Assumptions that once improved survival may no longer provide the protection they once did.

People continue relying upon forms of knowledge learned under one set of conditions while operating within another.

I have come to think of this as the temporal lag of competence.

The concept extends far beyond drug use.

Workers train for industries that disappear.

Parents apply lessons learned in one generation to a very different one.

Citizens navigate institutions that have changed faster than their expectations.

We all carry yesterday’s knowledge into today’s world.

Usually it serves us well.

Sometimes it does not.

Looking back, I do not think Paco died because he was careless.

I do not think he died because he lacked intelligence.

I do not think he died because he failed to learn.

In many ways, the opposite was true.

Paco survived for years because he paid attention. Because he adapted. Because he learned.

Because he accumulated knowledge that helped him navigate difficult circumstances.

The knowledge was real. The competence was real. The experience was real.

When I think about Paco now, I still remember the smile that appeared whenever someone complimented a new jacket or a fresh pair of shoes.

I remember his determination to maintain dignity under difficult conditions.

Most of all, I remember his confidence.

“I got this.”

For years, he probably did.

That is what makes his death so difficult to understand.

The world changed first.