This is a place for the still hopeful and this a place for the hopeless. Burnt husks of human beings and hell-spitting vibrant souls.

There is little extra here. Rooms are identified by stenciled spray paint on gray metal doors. Numbers would get prised off, nameplates would have to be maintained against casual but intentional disfigurement. It's just not practical.

The long hallways are clean and yawning, like the security guards waiting to take thier hourly pacing, ears cocked in between for the unseemly or flat out dangerous. If you are not in by 10PM the City rules allow for a more desperate woman to sleep in your bed for that night, especially during cold snaps brutal enough to force the most intransigent indoors.

The nicest, newest thing in this whole place is the metal detector, tucked in the corner after the mandated morning exodus. It's shiny bulk says impressive, expensive, and cheaper than the City really giving a sh!t.

There is a day room for women with nowhere to go, it is filled with TV and inertia, I think that is Rachel Ray, her face shockingly big and stupid on the large screen. I am trying to keep my own face blank, but a social worker touches my arm, says, "You're really thinking, aren't you?" Yeah, yes, I am.