Code Blue.

Code Blue, says a volunteer, means the city wants everyone to have shelter tonight. Was 32 degrees a few minutes ago. Dropping.

It's Friday night, and, like 51 other Fridays a year, homeless men and women appear across from the Central Booking and Intake Center by the Jones Falls Expressway (have you passed the trailer on the way home from work? Noticed the people standing in line?) and nearly under a Lotto highway billboard that announces $23 million up for impossible grabs.

"Dad, you want me to do that? Your back is bothering you," says Kate Snyder to her father, Ed Stoops. His van has pulled into the city parking lot. It's a little past the usual 5 p.m., but the traffic was bad. The homeless men and women - perhaps 50 tonight - have already formed a line.

Ed Stoops puts his back into unloading a warehouse of Cheez-Its, bottled waters, macaroni and cheese and a thermo sack of ham salad sandwiches. A pot of Weight Watchers turkey chili is coming. "Ever had turkey chili? I hadn't, either, but you're going to try it tonight," Stoops says to his guests at the Fallsway Resource trailer. Stoops has a long white beard but forgot to wear his Santa cap.

It's 5:15 p.m. The food is on. "You guys want to move that line back!" hollers college volunteer Kate Soaper. The other Kate, Mrs. Snyder, taught Soaper in high school. They are together again, for an hour, every Friday under Interstate 83 by the Lotto billboard and the jail. It's their routine. But none of the regular volunteers here could have imagined what their mission would become.

Ten winters ago, Kate Snyder heard a TV station announce the approaching coldest night of the season. The city was asking people to donate blankets. She and her friends drove to City Hall with a load. No one was there to pass them out, so they walked up and down the street around City Hall, passing out blankets. Someone asked for a sandwich. So, next week Kate and her friends came back with blankets and sandwiches. Ed Stoops worried about his daughter's safety. "I'm coming along," he finally said.

One Friday turned into year-long Fridays. More clothes and more food were brought by the Stoopses, and eventually their Catholic church - Our Lady of the Fields in Millersville - became the official sponsor of the Friday mission. For eight years, they set out their tables across from City Hall on Holliday Street. The chess players knew them well. Then, two years ago, they received a "Dear Outreach Provider" letter. The street feeding would have to be done at Fallsway and Madison Avenue, the city said. A trailer was offered with portable bathrooms, trash cans and tables. Feeling a bit put out, Ed and Francine Stoops & Co. moved their operation to Fallsway.

Tonight, someone has wiped the snow domes off the picnic tables. The trailer looks warm but no one is allowed in except a social worker and a client or two. The trailer is on blocks - can't have lots of people inside; it might topple.

Another life

Heat curls off Bridget Dorsey's hot chocolate. She's 25 and homeless, and her boyfriend, David Glover, is in the food line. She stands very still in the cold. She eats the macaroni and cheese. Because no one dreams of being homeless, she must have imagined another life for herself.

"I did want to be a police officer," she says. "I still want to be that." Now, she says she wants to get back in line.

George Wilson, 39, and Roger Jackson, 42, stand in front of the line with their food. Heat waves come from their bowls of Weight Watchers chili. Mucous has dried in their mustaches. Despite the Code Blue, they plan to sleep under the bridge. "Shelters booked up, buddy," Wilson says. They slept under the bridge the night before. The key is to stay out of the wind.

How'd it go last night? "Cold." Yes, cold, of course.

"I wanted to be a lawyer when I grew up," Wilson says.

Why?

"Because they make money." Yes, money, of course.

"I wanted to be a doctor," says Jackson. "So I could help people - and make money." Both men laugh hard and walk to the end of the line.

"Where are the first-timers?" Kate Soaper hollers. The men and women who have already been through the line move aside and point to the people who have not eaten yet. Courtesy, hunger and charity are here. There are no service-provider-client relationships to be seen; no hierarchy or bureacracy or courtesy titles. It almost resembles a picnic.

"We like to hang around and schmooze with the folks," Stoops says. His daughter had four homeless men to her house last Memorial Day for a cookout. Her dad made the offer the Friday before, then came by with his van and picked up the men that Sunday. Stoops relays the story as if doing such a thing is as common as, say, giving a friend a ride to pick up his car. These Friday nights come fast, he says, but he can't imagine ever changing his routine.

"There's a lot of wonderful people wandering the streets of Baltimore," he says. "And it's a great privilege for me to know and serve them."

David Glover, 41, eats hot ham by the cement picnic table. During the week, people sometimes leave food here - bagels and such. Bad idea, though. Rats get the food. Stoops walks by, passing out little packs of Kleenex ("Anyone want to wipe a runny nose?") and green Speed Sticks. Glover's blue plastic bag is packed with handouts.

"Man, this was my dream: to be a karate instructor, have my own studio," he says. He keeps his eye on his girlfriend. She still nurses a broken foot from last spring. It's icy. "Let me go help my baby," Glover says. They come back together.

Bridget Dorsey asks Stoops for deodorant. "It doesn't last long," someone pipes up. A man named Herman asks about a blanket. Others encircle Stoops, who dishes out L and XL sweatshirts and brimmed hats. "Herman," Stoops says, "that is just your style!" Herman takes a brimmed hat. Stoops remembers Herman never saying a word around the volunteers. Then, he came out of his shell. It's good to finally hear him talk, Stoops says.

A safe harbor

Trae Brown is 23. His gloves have holes. He plans to sleep tonight somewhere near the Inner Harbor, away from the wind, away from "homeless bashers" - young kids, he says, who just like to mess with sleeping homeless people. In the food line, Brown calls Kate Snyder "ma'am." Out of habit, out of respect. Snyder smiles at him. "You've been at a cookout at my house! It's not ma'am!" He smiles and takes his chili. He will probably call her "ma'am" next time, too.

What did Brown want to be when he grew up?

"I wanted to be everything, anything that could make a difference and have a positive impact," he says. "That's part of my problem - not knowing exactly what I wanted to be."

At 6:15 p.m., by the trailer, jail and Lotto sign, Ed and Francine Stoops and their helpers fold up the tables, stow the chips and load the van. They have learned things on these Friday nights. Other people pass out food and clothes. "We do that and give out dignity," Stoops says. "That is something people are starving for."

They've also learned that when it's cold, men and women need socks. Francine Stoops makes a mental note: Next week, bring more socks.

She is from Connecticut, so tonight doesn't feel terribly cold to her. But she knows when people are cold.

When did she do it? When she did slip behind her van and take off her own socks? She's a sly one. A homeless man walking away from the Fallsway Resource trailer now has socks on his feet. She had lied and told him it was an extra pair of her husband's. She knew the man would not have taken a pair of socks off a woman. Or maybe she didn't know that but just wanted to spare him the decision. It's a matter of dignity.

"I hope I don't see him here next week," she says. It's her sendoff to everyone nearly every Friday. It's her way of saying, God bless, go in peace. But she knows she'll see many of these faces again. The men and women will be hungry. They will wait in line. They might call her ma'am. And they might need socks.