"Are you here for the night?" a man with blue eyes and a shaggy beard asks me. I glance around the room. Rows of cots, posters on a wall reminding me to trust in God, exhausted-looking men and women sitting at a table drinking coffee.

"Ma'am, are you here for the night?" a slender African-American man asks me gently. It takes me a few seconds to realize that the three men who are sitting near the doorway are asking me if I want shelter. I've never been asked this question before and I don't know what to say.

It's 5:30 in the evening and people are starting to filter in to the Salvation Army's emergency homeless shelter in Escondido. Although I'm wearing a jacket I still feel the cold from outside. I tell them I'm a writer and that I'd like to talk to some of the men or women at the shelter.

"You can talk to us," the slender man says. "We've all been here. We know what it's like to live on the streets, to be in that cycle of helplessness. We know what it's like to need some help." His name is Lewis. The bearded man is Tony. Brian is the youngest, clean-cut and tattooed. They've all been addicted to drugs and alcohol, lost jobs and families, done things they blame no one for but themselves. Brian says he used to be "a menace to society."

Now all three are part of the Fellowship Center, the Salvation Army's residential drug and alcohol recovery program, and volunteer at the shelter to give back some of what they've been given. They are outraged by the heartless and shortsighted attempt by the Escondido City Council -- Mayor Lori Holt Pfeiler excluded -- to prevent the Salvation Army from keeping an emergency shelter open throughout the winter.

"You'd think they'd realize that these people at the shelter could be out there committing all kinds of crimes," Lewis says. "When you're cold and hungry and desperate you do things you wouldn't usually do just to get a motel room to sleep in and something to eat."

Brian looks at me intently. "I challenge them to spend one night on the streets. … They'd be thinking a whole lot differently after that."

Lewis nods. "Not everyone wants to get off the streets," he says. "Some people are mentally ill or too far gone to care, but the ones who come to the shelters are sometimes asking for help. That's how it was for me. If there hadn't been someone to help me when I was ready to turn my life around, I don't know where I'd be today."

"You don't think clearly when you're on the streets," Tony says. "Sometimes all it takes is one night. You get some food. You feel safe. You see someone cares. You think maybe there's a way out."

I realize what they're saying: A shut shelter door is more than a night out in the cold -- it's a shutting down of opportunity, of hope and redemption. And an invitation to crime. Just then a man walks in. He's shivering slightly and you can tell he's bone weary. Lewis looks at him and asks kindly, "Are you here for the night?"

Valley Center resident Brigid Brett is a freelance columnist for the North County Times. Contact her at brigidbrett@aol.com.