William Boston’s van is full while much of Baltimore is still asleep.

Each pickup from the front of a West Baltimore rowhouse or a dimly lit corner is an opportunity for someone to get further on their recovery journey.

Boston, endearingly called “Will B,” has been there and done that.

Over the last decade, Boston has combined his recovery from drug addiction with giving back to the Penn-North community. And, through fitness, friendship and his faith, he’s built a network of connections that he can count on even when the going gets tough, including a recent cancer diagnosis.

“I really love the people that’s around me. It’s hard not to love them,” Boston said. “It’s really hard not to because they are the most kind and loving people that I know.”

He grew up in Northeast, the youngest of five. Boston doesn’t usually share his age because he has had his identity stolen, but says he’s “much over 50, but not 60 yet.” Eleven years ago in April, he decided to kick opiates and fentanyl for good after he stole from his mother — “a good, church going woman.”

“It crushed my spirit,” he said.

He checked into Gaudenzia, an addiction treatment center in Park Heights for 35 days before making his way to Penn North Recovery.

Fitness was his fortitude, and he started working out, making healthy smoothies and selling fruit baskets. Soon, he’d start saving money for workout equipment and turned a hallway in the North Carey Street building into a makeshift gym.

Once a room opened up on the Penn North Recovery campus, Boston was able to move in and start “Will B Better Bodies” gym in 2015.

Boston became a personal trainer. He’s unlikely to be seen without his cap and a matching fitted sweatsuit that often accentuates his pecs. Clients and neighbors alike gravitated to the space not only to lift weights but to better themselves and their situations. That’s where he often saw Derel Owens, a runner and local barber.

“That gym is way more than a gym. It’s like the booth Clark Kent uses to turn into Superman,” Owens said about the transformations he’s seen people undergo.

Together, they eventually decided to start a running team called Bad-Ass Penn North. It came together with the help of Back on My Feet, a nonprofit that helps people struggling with homelessness and addiction through fitness and community.

In the hours when moths are still tapping against street lamp lights, Boston picks up clients at least three times a week to ensure they can get to and from the group exercise.

Between songs by Aaliyah and Blackstreet, a run of jokes fill the van during the ride.

During a recent carpool, a client told Boston he had a vivid dream the night before.

“Okay, Dr. King,” Boston cracked back before listening intently to the dazed debrief.

The running team meets on the basketball court where they share updates about what’s to come, how much they plan to walk or run, and something they’re grateful for.

People from all walks of life volunteer to run or walk with the members and help them where they can. Some are retired, work in the medical field, real estate and more. Loyola University Maryland students have been volunteers since its inception in 2017.

Elisabeth Abdoo was part of the first group of students to volunteer. Boston still keeps in touch with her and her parents.

“He’s extremely welcoming and wants everyone to know his community and see it the way he does, which is, like a place of great potential and hope,” she said.

Before the sun creeps onto sleepy Pennsylvania Avenue near North Avenue, runners in reflective gear trot along in small, scattered groups. Everyone goes at their own pace and no one is ever left behind, especially on Fridays when they finish the run with a Soul Train line dance.

A couple of men in a large truck recently honked while at a red light and told Boston and his walking mate they’d better catch up. Another car beeped and its riders cheered them on.

Owens said there’s a “powerful thing about running through neighborhoods” because for some they’re “running past old mistakes.”

Boston is candid about how he contributed to the hurt often seen in the neighborhood. He stole. He fought. He trespassed and committed other petty crimes when he used drugs.

“That’s not giving back to the neighborhood, that’s taking away from the neighborhood,” Boston said.

He’s happy he quit in time to help take care of his mother Delores, who developed cancer and died several years ago. Always inspired by the religious principles she taught him, he was even more impressed by the love she accumulated throughout her life.

It’s what motivates him to build and sustain connections with people that matter to him. And, they’ve returned the favor more than once.

When he cramped up halfway through the Boston Marathon, several of his friends jumped over the barriers to help him finish, he said.

When he had sinus pains that wouldn’t go away, one couple, Julie McArthur, a Penn-North runner and nurse practitioner, and her neurologist husband, recommended he see a specialist.

Thanks to them, they caught the cancer in his head and neck early. But he would still have to lace up for intensive treatment of radiation five days a week, plus one day of chemotherapy.

Many people pitched in during that time to help their team leader. His clients and friends set up a meal train, bringing him omelettes, salmon, and pasta. They rotated days to take him to treatments, and a friend from St. Moses, his church, made him a Ravens quilt with affirmations on it for his chemotherapy sessions.

When he had to close down the gym in February because of leasing conflicts, people rallied together again and started a GoFundMe to move and store his equipment.

Peter Jackson, who has a background in real estate, and Carl Ehrhardt, who’s a lawyer, are now helping Boston connect with the building owners to find a way for him to reopen the gym.

It’s no surprise several members of his “Dream Team,” as he calls them, showed up as he gripped a small hammer and rang the bell to mark the end of his treatment earlier this month at the Johns Hopkins Sidney Kimmel Comprehensive Cancer Center.

Boston never stopped participating in the morning runs or picking up clients as he went through treatment. In addition to his community work, he wants to serve other people seeking recovery in new ways.

He recently started leading Narcotics Anonymous groups again after a short hiatus. At one session last week, participants clapped and cheered as he entered the room at Chatford Manor in Baltimore County.

“I love you, man,” one attendee blurted out.

A woman wearing a crocheted beanie chimed in with, “It’s good to see you.”

The compliments washed over Boston, who then hunched over like Rodin’s “The Thinker” in a chair in the center of the room.

Quickly, he turned the attention away from himself by sharing the day’s lesson of courage, reiterating that they are all “in a good fight” to keep their addictions at bay and their communites healthy.

“We can’t go through it by ourselves, ya’ll,” Boston said.