My curiosity about this sudden ubiquity helps explain how I came to meet Nick, 33, a handsome white guy, comprehensively tattooed, dressed in a workwear jacket and nice jeans. Nick looks like somebody you’d meet in an expensive coffee shop. It’s a look that doesn’t suggest, to most eyes, somebody who at times injected himself daily with steroids. Somebody who used to deal them and even “cooked” them in his kitchen. Somebody who once injected himself, Pulp Fiction–style, straight in the chest.