On a recent Friday evening, the sun began to set as I walked up the steps of the 15 Rutherford Place entrance to the Meeting House. I had done this walk countless times before, but this time it felt different. It could have been because my backpack was filled not with my usual books and folders, but with sheets, a pillowcase, and a toothbrush.

I was volunteering at the Friends Shelter, a volunteer-run homeless shelter located in the Common Room that provides dinner and a place to sleep for up to 14 adult guests every night of the year. My parents had volunteered before and had always spoken positively of the experience, so I decided to give it a try too.

It was 6:45 p.m. when I walked past a security guard into the Common Room. Two regular guests had arrived early and were already helping to set up. When one saw us, a big smile crossed his face, and he greeted my mom and me warmly with firm handshakes. 

Behind a hidden door in the gym’s wall is a tiny kitchen. One of the guests took out folding tables to set up a communal dining table in the middle of the gym and a buffet table along the south wall of the gym. 

I helped take out a stack of green, plastic chairs and put them around the dining table. We covered the tables with blue-checkered tablecloths.

We checked the refrigerator to see if we needed any supplies for dinner. Ice cream and bread were running low, as were fresh fruit and cheese, so I volunteered to go to West Side Market to get some. There I picked up clementines and bananas, as they are healthy and portable, some bread, cheese, and vanilla and mint chip ice cream. A laminated card printed with “Friends Shelter Volunteer” allowed me to charge the groceries to the shelter. 

When I returned, I saw that they had rolled out folding cots from a storage room which was concealed by another hidden door in the gym. The other nine guests had also arrived – there were 11 that night – and were setting up their spaces. 

My mom and I brought the food, which had been provided by the Friends’ cafeteria, to the buffet table. There was a platter of chicken, string beans, and rice, a tray of wraps, some cold cuts, cheese, and bread, and the fruit I had bought. 

As the guests helped themselves to plates of food, people walked through the gym and down the stairs. My mom told me that they were going to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, located in the cafeteria. I was amazed at how much activity happened at school at night.

Some of the guests ate right away, while others relaxed on their cots and read or watched videos. Some ate in silence; others chatted. Conversation topics ranged from a guest’s bothersome shoulder injury, to my surfing accident in California, to an unusual parade in Union Square that had featured naked people completely covered in body paint. A guest had captured the event on her phone and passed it around to laughter.

 I brought out the ice cream. The mint chip went fast. 

After dinner, my mom and I cleared the table and wrapped up the leftovers. As we loaded the dishwasher, some of the guests started to go to bed, while others stayed up. A couple set up an iPad on the dining table and watched fails. 

It was about 9:45 when my mom and I said good night and went into a side room where we would sleep. We unfolded the cots that we had rolled into the room earlier that evening and made them up with the sheets that we had brought from home. After brushing our teeth in the reserved bathroom for volunteers, we turned out the light. Lying in my cot I heard the sound that I have listened to my whole life. One that is comforting to me: the sound of New York City.

At 6:45 a.m, I awoke to my mom’s blaring alarm and immediately popped out of bed. My mom and I got dressed and quietly made our way into the kitchen. We put out the cold cuts, bread, and cheese, as well as cereal, milk, juice, water, coffee, tea, and fruit.

My mom turned on the lights. “Sorry everybody, but it’s time to wake up,” she said. 

Over a cup of coffee, a guest and I talked about our shared experience of being a twin. “Do you still get along with your twin?” I asked her. 

“She’s my best friend,” she replied. 

The guests started leaving one by one, putting away their cots and packing up their bags. “Good-bye, thanks!” a guest smiled. My mom complimented another guest on her bright yellow rain boots. By 8:00 a.m., all had left.

We put away the food, did the dishes, folded the tables and tablecloths, and stored everything away. My mom took out the trash while I put away the cots. We ran the dishwasher and closed the kitchen door.

We left at 8:30. When I looked over my shoulder at the empty Common Room, there was no trace that anything had happened there. No evidence of people eating together, laughing together, talking together, and falling asleep together. All that was left was a little gym that on Monday morning would be filled with children playing. 

As I walked home, I felt good. I felt that my actions, as simple as they were, like making a bed or setting out ice cream, had had an effect that I could actually see. Unlike other volunteering experiences, like sorting medical supplies or planting flowers, my work at the shelter felt more direct and more personal. I could see the result of my contribution.

When I got home, I asked my mom to sign me up again, and when I walked to school on Monday, my backpack was filled with books again.