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heat mixed to create a thick smell that was notunpleasant. A homeless man, bundled up much like Mister, bumped into me and it was time to move.
    I went straight to Mordecai, who was delighted to see me. We shook hands like old friends, and he introduced me to two volunteers whose names I never heard.
    “It’s crazy,” he said. “A big snow, a cold snap, and we work all night. Grab that bread over there.” He pointed to a tray of sliced white bread. I took it and followed him to a table.
    “It’s real complicated. You got bologna here, mustard and mayo there. Half the sandwiches get mustard, half get mayo, one slice of bologna, two slices of bread. Do a dozen with peanut butter every now and then. Got it?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You catch on quick.” He slapped me on the shoulder and disappeared.
    I hurriedly made ten sandwiches, and declared myself to be proficient. Then I slowed, and began to watch the people as they waited in line, their eyes downcast but always glancing at the food ahead. They were handed a paper plate, a plastic bowl and spoon, and a napkin. As they shuffled along, the bowl was filled with soup, half a sandwich was placed on the plate, then an apple and a small cookie were added. A cup of apple juice was waiting at the end.
    Most of them said a quiet “Thanks” to the volunteer handing out the juice, then they moved away, gingerlyholding the plate and bowl. Even the children were still and careful with their food.
    Most seemed to eat slowly, savoring the warmth and feel of food in their mouths, the aroma in their faces. Others ate as fast as possible.
    Next to me was a gas stove with four burners, each with a large pot of soup cooking away. On the other side of it, a table was covered with celery, carrots, onions, tomatoes, and whole chickens. A volunteer with a large knife was chopping and dicing with a vengeance. Two more volunteers manned the stove. Several hauled the food to the serving tables. For the moment, I was the only sandwich man.
    “We need more peanut butter sandwiches,” Mordecai announced as he returned to the kitchen. He reached under the table and grabbed a two-gallon jug of generic peanut butter. “Can you handle it?”
    “I’m an expert,” I said.
    He watched me work. The line was momentarily short; he wanted to talk.
    “I thought you were a lawyer,” I said, spreading peanut butter.
    “I’m a human first, then a lawyer. It’s possible to be both—not quite so much on the spread there. We have to be efficient.”
    “Where does the food come from?”
    “Food bank. It’s all donated. Tonight we’re lucky because we have chicken. That’s a delicacy. Usually it’s just vegetables.”
    “This bread is not too fresh.”
    “Yes, but it’s free. Comes from a large bakery, their day-old stuff. You can have a sandwich if you like.”
    “Thanks. I just had one. Do you eat here?”
    “Rarely.” From the looks of his girth, Mordecai had not maintained a diet of vegetable soup and apples. He sat on the edge of the table and studied the crowd. “Is this your first trip to a shelter?”
    “Yep.”
    “What’s the first word that comes to mind?”
    “Hopeless.”
    “That’s predictable. But you’ll get over it.”
    “How many people live here?”
    “None. This is just an emergency shelter. The kitchen is open every day for lunch and dinner, but it’s not technically a shelter. The church is kind enough to open its doors when the weather is bad.”
    I tried to understand this. “Then where do these people live?”
    “Some are squatters. They live in abandoned buildings, and they’re the lucky ones. Some live on the streets; some in parks; some in bus stations; some under bridges. They can survive there as long as the weather is tolerable. Tonight they would freeze.”
    “Then where are the shelters?”
    “Scattered about. There are about twenty—half privately funded, the other half run by the city, which, thanks to the new budget, will soon close two of