By the time Inglourious Basterds and Harry Potter had slipped into our discussion, the One Night Count felt more like a fraternizing affair than a civic one. So far, our flashlit trek through Woodland Park had shed more light on the film tastes of my fellow employees than on any hidden homeless population in the woods-and although I was happy to gab Golden Globes, the topic of conversation was clear evidence that we could afford to be distracted. If the homeless were out, they didn't seem very about. And because of it, our search had adopted an air of hollow formality, despite my previous hopes to make this one night count for something.

The search was racking up a number of other forfeited illusions, too, although one or two of them were admittedly pretty silly to begin with:

You mean we

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