"All these people want is a little compassion, someone to listen to them for a while," Falconer said, as Williams brought Brown into the store and bought her a box of fried chicken.

Fortified by Krispy Kreme and success, Falconer pulled out of the convenience store Towson as Brown boarded the #8 bus back to the city, blanket under her arm.

The pair went first to check the American Legion property, known to be sleeping area for some homeless. Falconer's headlights revealed only an empty, frozen baseball diamond. The car then crawled up York Road toward the library, where they'd found Timmy Teabout and Birdman the night before.

Teabout was again nearby, walking in front of the library parking garage on Chesapeake Avenue. As Falconer talked to Teabout, Williams gathered pastries be bought and donated candy bars to him. Their interaction was brief. Both commented that Teabout seemed different, a bit less mentally present, than he had the night before. Minutes later, the pair moved on.

Falconer wove through the streets and alleys of Towson's core.

"Every crack and crevice," he said, peering out the window.

Before they completed a full lap around Towson, Falconer and Williams encountered another.

A man named Damien Spedalerg was camped beneath an overhang outside Jake's NY Deli, his belongings strewn between HVAC machines and Dumpsters in the alcove off Washington Avenue.

Spedalerg, at first leery of the two, came out and began sharing his story with Falconer and Williams. He spoke quickly, alternating between gratitude for the attention and laments about those who ignore him.

"They see me back here…" he said, turning his hands up in frustration.

Spedalerg didn't accept a blanket — he said he had three, all of which had kept him warm through the week's single-digit cold. But he was glad for the food, and told his benefactors of a friend who years ago died of hypothermia on a frigid night not unlike the one he'd just survived.

"Nights like last night are deadly," he said.

Spedalerg, in a puffy black knee-length coat with a fur-lined hood, sweatpants and work boots, went on to explain who else might be in the area and where. He said he stays in Towson because he feels safer there than in Baltimore City.

As they spoke, Williams laid out Spedalerg's share of the rations on a commercial grease receptacle. Williams, not satisfied with just delivering a warm meal, candy bars and coffee cakes, asked Damian what else he could use. They talked of new backpacks and coats and, as his baggy sweatpants fell to his ankles while he walked, a pair of pants that fit Damian's size-36 waist.

After leaving Spedalerg, the two searched for 30 more minutes, crisscrossing Towson's core. Finding no one else, they packed it in.

As Falconer drove home, they said this would be the last tour for the week, with Falconer committed to spending a waking hour or two with his wife and Williams itching to resume his COP duties.

But all day Thursday, neighbors' donations of blankets, bags, food and toiletries piled up on Williams' front porch. One neighbor asked if her teenage son could tag along and witness their good works. They decided to go out again Thursday night into Friday morning.

That, Williams insisted, would really be the last night until the following week.

They said they will press on through January and toward spring, bolstered not by the daytime hours spent organizing donations or the fruitless late-night peeks into alleys, but the knowing words interspersed between Spedalerg's endless gratitude.

"There's a lot more winter left," he said. "We have a lot more frigid nights."