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Michael, who was sitting by the road to the Charles H. Gay Building, told me he had lost his job when the dock where he worked was destroyed by Sandy. He said, “Bloomberg thinks we low-down, but we ain’t—we just poor.” In twenty-eight per cent of the families in shelters, at least one person has a job. Erica, who lived in a shelter despite working for an energy company in Connecticut, listed her rage-filled complaints in a burst like a ratchet gun, with swift, dramatic gestures. Her shelter apartment, which she showed me, was spotless. Paul, an older West Indian man, waited in line at a C.F.H. food-distribution van by Battery Park while we talked. He said he had been laid off from his job as a furniture handler and shipper in Staten Island and was sleeping on the couches of friends. Shenon, a home health aide who lived in a family shelter on Junius Street, in Brooklyn, said that “grown-ass men” walked its hallways nearly naked in front of her kids. She offered to show me the shelter, and told me a cell-phone number, but, like most of the others I was given, it turned out not to work.