The group begins to move again, to sing and drum together. I am a tourist, a critical one, and this sudden disruption of the Gastown narrative is cutting me to the core. I walk with them, along Water Street, past the steam clock, past the tourist kitsch vendors. We stop at another hotel, and then another, and then another. Native women, many of them, have died in Gastown, victims of drug and alcohol abuse, and violence. We are taking a tour.