Alcatraz had nothing on this place. A red brick hovel that has never been warm. Icy cold drafts percolate into every nook and cranny. We have done our best to create something. The rows of cardboard boxes, many several layer thick, look like tents. Pull back a flap and the mountains of old fabrics, clothes and shredded paper, hit one with their strong aromas. Soon joined by clouds of steam from the inhabitants of these fetid dens. But I am safe here from those who hunt me.