Gladiola Street, west of Salt Lake City, thrums with noise. 

Semi-trucks groan to a stop at train crossings, helicopters pulse overhead, and reversing trucks beep between warehouse walls. Mountains of stacked shipping containers cast long industrial shadows over a neighborhood in flux.

Here, household size ranges from two to 12 people, and the median income is zero. Tarped trailers and run-down RVs branded with names like WANDER, NOMAD, and ADVENTURE line the block.

At 1:30 pm, Michael Morgan and three of his medical students pull up in a van stocked with medical supplies, Narcan, socks, blankets, and M&M cookies. This is their clinic. This is street medicine. “House calls,” Michael calls them.

Paige, a case manager, scans the scene with a walkie-talkie in hand. People are outside today—a woman sweeps her porch, two men tinker with bikes, another dozes in a camp chair, slack with exhaustion. “All clear,” Paige radios in.

Michael nods, sending students down the street with bags of supplies. As they walk, they call out: “Fourth Street Medical!”

Everyone knows—the doctor is in.

Teaching Humanism

Michael Morgan is director of student-led clinics at Fourth Street Clinic, a need-based medical home for Salt Lake City’s unhoused population. Two months ago, he started taking medical students on street rotations, embedding them in the raw reality of care outside hospital walls.

At their first stop, Michael and Julian, a first-year medical student, treat a man for an STI and direct him to the clinic for follow-up care. They hand out clean blankets, dog food, and toiletries. An elderly man with a pit bull named Kensington chats with Michael about the weather. Michael shakes his hand, asks if he needs anything. The man hesitates, then declines.

“You have to honor the ‘no,’” Michael tells his students. “Even when you know someone needs help.”

Many unhoused individuals distrust doctors. “They’re treated like garbage,” Michael says. “They smell bad. They look bad. Sometimes, they act strange. And that puts people off.”

Barriers to care are more than just stigma. Many have nowhere safe to leave their belongings during a clinic visit. Some won’t show because they have no one to watch their dog.

“It’s more than just medicine,” Michael tells his students. “Here, we have to think about social determinants of health before we can even begin to treat someone.” Some people bury their insulin to keep it cold. Others survive on five-day-old cupcakes and secondhand Cheesecake Factory leftovers.

“The street team throws students into the deep end,” Michael says. “It’s emotional. It’s scary. But I want them to see that patients are more than how they present that day. They’re impressionistic paintings—shaped by their environment, their relationships, their history. We’re building a workforce of compassionate physicians. And this is a course in humanism.”

More Than a Doctor, A Friend 

Michael doesn’t fit the image of a doctor. No white coat. No scrubs. No ergonomic shoes. Instead, he wears a rust-colored flannel, a ski jacket, and well-worn Chelsea boots. Nothing about him says “system” or “authority.”

He grew up below the poverty line, a latchkey kid sleeping on a cot in the hallway of a tiny apartment. His first job was at the age of 13—breaking child labor laws to help support his family. He declines to talk much more about himself, humility one of his core values. 

To be of use—especially to the most vulnerable—is also at his core. As he introduces himself to people outside their RVs, his kind blue eyes seek to understand. Michael and Emma, another medical student, talk with a patient sitting on the trunk of his car. The man clutches his belongings, rocking back and forth, distressed. After helping him, Michael extends his hand.

The patient retreats. “Oh, you don’t want to touch my hand. I’m dirty.” Michael gently takes his hand in his own. “Of course I do.” The man smiles. A simple handshake, layered with trust and understanding, could be what brings him back for care.

The Work That Matters

The last stop of the day is along the Jordan River Parkway Trail. The team is busy. They treat six patients for rashes, stomach bugs, wounds, and STIs. They schedule follow-ups. They hand out Narcan, which goes fast and is taken with gratitude.

“I saved my friend’s life last night. Bless you all,” one man tells a student.

As Michael wraps up, a disoriented man with Sony headphones approaches. He’s missing three front teeth, shifting from one foot to the other. He asks where the clinic is—he’d like to see a therapist.

Michael tells him the address. The man’s eyes widen. “I used to record heavy metal music in a studio next to Fourth Street!” Michael pauses. “What was your band?”

“Gaza.” Michael’s mouth drops, his arms raise in excitement. “Gaza? No way—I was in Pushing Up Daisies! We played shows together!” The man blinks, stunned. Michael says, “Luke, give me a hug, man.”

They embrace, laughing. Then Luke unravels his story—how drugs took over, how he lost his job, how just last week, someone stole the suitcase that held everything he owned.

Michael notices Luke is only wearing a long-sleeved shirt. The temperature will drop to 24 degrees tonight. He hands Luke some warm layers before sending him on his way. 

Back at the clinic, students reflect. I feel changed, someone says. Another feels they’ve unlocked a new layer of empathy. Another student talks about hopelessness—how could this happen to so many people? Slowly, they’re realizing that solutions to systemic problems like homelessness aren’t as simple as beds in shelters. How can these medical students ever hope to make a dent? 

Michael asks them to take three breaths. One for the patients. One for their loved ones. One for themselves. He explains that being a doctor can feel like tilting at windmills. But he shares his personal philosophy: “Chop wood, carry water.”

Do the work. Show up. Listen. See patients beyond their symptoms. The day-in, day-out work? Showing up as the best version of you? That is enough to make a difference.

By Sheridan Underwood; Photos by Laura Seitz