This particular week, July 10 through 16, will turn out to be unexceptional by the dreary standards of what has become the region's greatest health crisis.
This is normal now, a week like any other. But a terrible week is no less terrible because it is typical. When heroin and synthetic opiates kill one American every 16 minutes, there is little comfort in the routine.
There is only the struggle to endure and survive.
"I just walked in and my buddy, he hasn't been answering his phone. I believe he's OD'd and I think he's dead."
Jimmy Doherty arrives at the halfway house on Ravine Street still wearing the blue slippers he got in jail.
He came straight here after his release this morning because he thinks the program at the Pax House in Cincinnati will help him get his addiction under control.
"We'll get you going," says the house manager.
Doherty crushes his cigarette and sits down to fill out a form for new residents, but he's stumped by a question about his history with drugs. It's a long history.
"Describe all mood-altering substances?" Doherty asks.
The manager shakes his head. "Drug of choice," he says. "Just put your drug of choice."
Doherty nods. He turns back to the page and writes a single word.
On some days, even before she calls their names, Judge Gwen Bender can tell why the defendants are in Courtroom A.
Their bones look as if they might poke through their skin. Their eyes are sunken, their hair a tangled mess. Some are unsteady on their feet. Others scratch at sores on their arms.
A few lean on the table in front of the judge as if it is the only thing holding them up.
"This is a heroin case?" the judge asks.
This morning, as on most mornings, one in four felony cases on this Hamilton County court docket is directly connected to heroin.
There's a 70-year-old Army veteran who stashed a bag of syringes in a basement crawl space. A Taylor Mill woman who tried to hide needles in her vagina after shooting up. A St. Bernard woman who overdosed when a friend injected her with heroin.
The woman from St. Bernard looks confused, as if she's unsure how she got here. She was on the floor of her friend's house, barely breathing, less than 12 hours ago.
Now she's standing before the judge, eyes sunken.