Crystal Munn sat in a diner on Colfax Avenue eating breakfast for dinner one evening in late March, devouring her eggs, taking the pancakes with her in a to-go box for later. She is jittery, less focused than even a few weeks before. She admitted she was now using fentanyl every day, smoking it for the faster kick.

Sometimes it is after fights with her boyfriend, sometimes to dial down the stress from living on the street.

“It helps me not to think,” she said.

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Munn has been homeless on and off since 2017, battling the demons of a life that did not turn out as she had hoped. She got clean in the past only to slip back into the inertia of using.

If she rolls up the sleeve of her shirt there are scars on her arms from when she clawed at her skin while on meth.

At 38, she is petite and strikingly pretty. On a good day she looks younger, when she knots her blond hair in a bun on top of her head and wears a touch of glittery eye make-up because she still likes to try to look nice.

She and her boyfriend, Curtis Favor, live in a dented, red 2002 Subaru Forester whose heater does not work. The back is loaded with bags of clothes, food, blankets — the reduced trappings of a world slowly shrinking.

They were parked near a sprawling encampment on West Colfax Avenue until forced out when the city did a recent sweep. They then moved to another encampment near a maze of underpasses on Denver’s west side. It, too, has now been swept.

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They shower when they can at drop-in shelters or at friends’ houses, usually only twice a week. Sleep is fleeting. Once someone tried to break in, opening the car door while she was inside. That scared her. Little else does. The drugs keep fear at bay.

Born in Denver, Munn moved to Greeley in the second grade, mostly raised by her grandmother after her father vanished and her mother was in and out of jail. She dropped out of high school at age 16 when she got pregnant the first time. She has five kids, none of which are with her now. Being a mom is the one thing she says always knew she wanted to be.

She eventually graduated from high school and got a community college associate degree in medical billing, landing a good office job. At least for a while.

She began dancing at a strip club and could pull in as much as $700 a night. With that kind of money, she once took her kids to Disneyland. “I tried to give them everything I didn’t have,” she said of her own childhood.

The first time she tried oxycodone was with her then-boyfriend about a decade ago, initially only 10 milligrams and then gradually, reluctantly, upping the dosage to chase the high. It made her feel warm and fuzzy inside. She was less inhibited when she danced, which brought in more tips. When oxy became too expensive she switched to heroin.

In the beginning she only took the pills at work. Then she started at home, too. Then she stopped dancing. Then she lost the house she was renting.

On her first night on the street, she and her then boyfriend stole some patio cushions off a porch and slept under a pine tree in Cheesman Park. She remembers how cold it was.

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She met her current boyfriend when he was dealing and she was buying. They have been together for more than three years except for when he was doing time. She said he helped her get off heroin a couple of years back.

She’d like to get clean again. She’d like to work in an office someday. A receptionist job would be great. But work feels impossible when living in her car. She keeps her clothes wadded up in trash bags. It is hard to be on time places. She misses having running water.

Her dream is to live in a house or a townhome, someplace clean and quiet with two bedrooms so maybe her kids could visit sometimes. If she closes her eyes, she can almost picture it.

She is sure it would be easier to get clean and reroute her life if she had the stability of a steady place to call home.

Last year she went to the Colorado Coalition for the Homeless to try to get on a list for permanent housing. She arrived at 5 a.m., hours before the office opened. Both she and Favor, her boyfriend, filled out forms and were told to come back. She said she is still waiting to get on a list.

Her biggest regret was starting to take the pills. Her brother, who also struggled with addiction, warned her back then about the path she was entering. “He was right. I have lost everything, little by little,” she said, “I wish I could go back in time.”

Note: The Denver Gazette began following Munn in late February and was in regular contact. On March 27 she stopped responding to phone calls and text messages. Her whereabouts are unknown.