Clutching two small children, a young mother headed toward Manatee Island's only exit. Nearing the long, wooden bridge, she veered off the pavement – a hard left toward … nothing.

Away from me.

She pretended to study a pile of rocks as I clomped by in my hiking boots, 20-year-old Army pants and a $3.27 stained T-shirt. In her eyes, I looked no different from the rest of them: The man napping in the wood line, or the scraggly man pacing erratically under the nearby pavilion.

She had no way of knowing I was there for my job, which called for spending two nights undercover as a homeless man. I wanted to better understand what life was like for the legions of Daytona’s homeless, to experience how challenging even day-to-day concerns become.

Do you hide from a thunderstorm or try to reach shelter? Do you sleep near strangers for safety or avoid them because they might pose a threat? Where do you find food? How do you stay hydrated in Florida’s blazing heat — and if you do, where do you relieve yourself?

Before I set out, three ground rules were set:

• Don’t be confrontational.

• Don’t break cover unless it’s necessary.

• Don’t break any laws.

I managed two out of three.

To blend in, grooming was out. Neck-beard became the new normal. My clothes came from Goodwill. An old pair of glasses held together with duct tape allowed me to see.

The disguise made me feel invisible. Some people — even one who knew me — no longer saw me. Others, like the woman in the park, wished they couldn’t.

That was the first of many lessons from my two days on the street. There were others. Being homeless means being alone most of the time, being without. You stink. You bury your pride. You sleep in fear.

If you sleep.

While food’s not much of a problem, there’s not enough shelter — so much so that a veteran was sent away for the weekend during a thunderstorm.

NO SHELTER

I began downtown on Beach Street in the middle of a Thursday afternoon. The heat was instant and oppressive.

Heading north, I scouted out places to sleep. Scattered cardboard behind the News-Journal Center warned of claimed turf. Manatee Island, with the entrance's tall wrought-iron fence and pole-mounted cameras, looked more like a prison than a park. Its emptiness gave me chills.

I marched on, already bleeding sweat and desperate for shade. By late afternoon I reached the Salvation Army on Ballough Road, Daytona Beach's only homeless shelter for single men. I was sure they would have something.

Outside the entrance, I spoke with an older man who was cordial and kind.

“There isn’t any short-term shelter in the area,” he said.

Seeing my disappointment and noticing the camouflage pants, he asked if I was a veteran. I told him I was, which is true, and he sent me around back to try my luck. I spoke with a woman there.

“Is there shelter here?”

She shook her head. “There used to be short-term shelter, but now it’s just for people in the bridge to bed program.”

“How do I get into that?”

“You need to speak with a caseworker. Intake is Tuesday through Thursday, 8 a.m. to 11 a.m.”

It was past 4 p.m. Too late.

“So what do you do on Friday?” I asked.

“I do house visits.”

“No. What do I — what do we — do? Where do we sleep?”

She didn’t have an answer.

I asked about veterans' programs. She said if I hurried to North Street, I might find something.

More walking. More sweating. The heat index had blown past 100 and the large Gatorade I'd started with was nearly empty.

The workday was ending as I reached North Street. Behind J Food Store at the intersection with Ridgewood Avenue, an addict lay passed out — or dead — by a dumpster. I heard whispers of drugs from those who’d managed to remain upright. The thought of sleeping outside drove me on.

Inside the North Street facility, I found a woman seated at a desk behind thick glass. She didn’t get up while I asked about shelter. I already knew the answer. (I would find out later there was no shelter for single men there and that the Salvation Army's Ballough Road shelter is closing at the end of July, with nothing yet to replace it.)

HOMELESS OASIS

Evening was setting in, yet the day’s heat rose off the pavement like an open oven door. On the way back to Beach Street, I found an abandoned stack of cardboard boxes on the side of the road and stuffed a slab in my backpack.

Bed.

The last layer of skin tore from my heels just before reaching Beach Street. My measured pace ground to a trudge. I had nothing to drink and I needed to pee, but I knew I wouldn’t be welcome using the nearby shop or restaurant restrooms.

Near Bay Street, a business owner crossed the street to berate a middle-aged black man.

“You need to leave!” the owner shouted at the man.

The Prophet, as I came to think of him, had a skittish demeanor and hoarse voice. He spouted biblical verses into a crumpled shirt he held like a cell phone.

“Leave or I’ll call the cops!”

Festive beats from Tia Cori’s Tacos helped drown out the argument as I moved south on the palm-lined street toward City Island. I reached the Daytona Beach Regional Library around 6 p.m.

At the entrance, a co-worker passed me, a man who’s sat an arm’s-length away from me for three months. He didn’t recognize me or, like the woman in the park, he didn’t want to see me.

The library’s automatic doors swung open and a breath of air conditioning embraced me. Life’s simple pleasures awaited. Cold water. A bathroom. Facebook. It was a veritable homeless oasis.

I used the bathroom and washed my face. All I could taste was salt.

Inside, I grabbed a newspaper and collapsed into a chair. After a moment, my nose wrinkled at the musty scent in the air. It smelled like a wrestler’s armpit.

It was me.

I squirmed in the chair. Could anyone else smell me? Should I move? What if someone says something? But the homeless were all around, so many that without them the library would be practically empty.

The reprieve was short-lived: 7 p.m. Closing time.

Two men sat outside the library’s entrance. The Prophet was there too, rambling about an attempt on his life. A metal gate crashed down with the finality of a coffin lid.

“Once that gate closes, that’s it man,” one man said.

There was nowhere else to go, and night was coming.

Coming Monday: Where do you sleep when there's no room at the shelter?