In between

The shoes are spread across the floor in three rows, divided by size. Some still have price tags on them. Beyond the shoes, there are racks and racks of clothes, separated by size, style, and type. And then tables and tables filled with coloring books, crayons, books, and board games. They call this area 'the store' and when you bring the evacuees -- or guests or clients, never refugees -- here, it's called 'shopping'. A small boy picks among the shoes. He reaches down and finds a pair of Nikes; they look practically brand new. He takes them, without trying them on. He smiles as he looks at them. I hope they fit.

I shift through the remains of someone's life. The smell of mildew is overwhelming. I'm wearing blue latex gloves. The items in the bags are nothing fancy: baby formula, tooth paste, toothbrush, smushed chocolate bars, underwear, baby clothes. Most of the items seem wet, but it's hard to be sure through the latex gloves. I feel vaguely guilty for going through someone's stuff like this; we don't even know their names, only number. "This goes to number 5," they'll say when they bring in the cart of garbage bags, or "This is number 4."

We shake out the blankets. We pat the pillows down. We search pockets. We try to fold the clothes the best we can, and we separate out the wet from the dry. Contraband -- like knives, drugs, lighters, guns -- get tossed into a box for the National Guard. A lot of the food gets thrown out; it may be contaminated. The garbage bag most of these possessions arrive in are thrown out as well; we replace the possessions into new, clear garbage bags. I repack a little boy's Spider Man backpack; I don't have the heart to dump his toys into a garbage bag. Eventually a family will straggle up, and identify themselves by number. We carry their bags to the cluster of cots where they'll spend their nights.

The shelter is probably the size of three football fields, maybe more; on another shift, I'm an usher and it's my job to take the evacuees from registration to wherever it is they want to go. By the end of the night, my feet hurt, my hip is stiff, and my knee is spazzing. But that's nothing, nothing, compared to what these people have endured. I greet each one: "My name is Seema. I'm your guide. Tell me where you want to go. We're so, so glad you're here." And sometimes they manage to smile. And I keep walking, the endless line of mattresses and cots covered with colorful blankets and sheets to my right, and the array of services and volunteers on my left. Over and over again, I hear those words: Welcome, we're so glad you're here.