Steve Colvin sank into his graying couch and let out a deep, guttural sigh.

The 62-year-old's eyes, watery and vacant, bounced around the room as he pointed out the knick-knacks — and memories — that surrounded him. There was a photograph from his high school yearbook, a wedding anniversary gift from his wife, and, just outside the sliding doors, a set of solar panels he had assembled one spring afternoon to power the house should there be a blackout.

A smile would flash upon Colvin's face as he detailed the significance of each item. It would fade just as quickly, however, as he remembered why he was reviewing it all.

"I’m going to be homeless at 62 years old, never been homeless in my life," he said, his voice slow and deliberate. "What am I supposed to do? You tell me and I’ll listen."

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Hours earlier, at 9:45 a.m on Oct. 26, Colvin lost his home in the Wayne County Tax Foreclosure Auction. It was one of about 2,000 occupied homes up for the taking this fall.

While the former handyman was flustered when trying to pin down how he "fell to this" in conversation, he kept returning to a car accident from two years ago; one that made it impossible to work.

Colvin receives $735 a month in Social Security checks. And when he found out in May that his house had been foreclosed, he began squirreling away every last cent he could to save the two-bedroom brick bungalow on Stahelin Street. By the morning of the auction, he had $4,375. The house ended up going for $15,000. A few clicks of a computer mouse and his cozy home — the place he'd settled into over the last 15-years — was gone.

"Where am I supposed to go? What am I supposed to do? How does someone 'be' homeless with all this stuff? Where do they put it all?" He couldn't stop asking questions.

The only glimmer of hope that Colvin could latch onto were rumblings that city officials were working on a last-ditch effort to keep owners in homes up for auction.

A week earlier, at an Oct. 20 roundtable meeting for auction stakeholders — a ragtag crew of community groups as well as representatives from the city and county — a staffer from the city assessor's office announced that the department had sent out 500 letters to owner occupants letting them know that if they filled out a poverty tax exemption slip and were approved, the city would ask the county to remove their house from the auction. While the plan was last-minute and came with numerous question marks, those who got wind of it held onto it — and its implied hope — tightly.

Colvin was one of them. Although he says he never received a letter announcing the scheme, he had been working with United Community Housing Coalition, which had been represented at the roundtable discussion. The day the plan was reported he filled out an exemption form.

Sitting in his den the evening of Oct. 25, eating cube steak and gravy — what he described as his 'last supper' — Colvin alternated between asking questions about his future and trying to pinpoint where it all went awry. How did he fall this far? He wanted to know. The conversation felt heavy, dark and final, but every so often the poverty tax exemption plan would come up. There was, he kept repeating, a chance he'd maybe, possibly, miraculously be able to stay in his home.

It was a thought that provided some solace that night, taking the edge off the prospect of displacement. It also didn't last long.

Two days later, on Oct. 28, Wayne County Treasurer Eric Sabree told the Free Press that the assessor's proposal would not come to be. He had not been informed about the plan prior, he said, and he would not be retracting deeds for houses already purchased.

"The auction is over, we are getting ready for next year," he said.

Folks, like Colvin, were quite simply, out of luck.

Regarded by some as a "modern-day form of forced relocation" and by others as a pragmatic step to recoup funds, the yearly tax auction weighs heavily on the collective conscience of many Wayne County residents, housing advocates and officials, and specifically those in the city of Detroit.

With a poverty rate that hovers just below 40%, Detroit has been a focal point for the auction. The fall sale aims to re-activate abandoned spaces and spark new ownership, however, it also has worked to ensnare a large number of poor people, specifically those with cash flow problems.

And while the number of occupied homes in the auction has dropped over the years, those fighting to keep people in their homes question why, 15 years after the first auction in 2002, a solution hasn't been conceived that would stop the forced displacement completely.

The false hope of the assessor's plan — along with its haste and deficiencies — seemed to shine a light on this disconnect. How did a plan that came at the eleventh hour, was never officially announced publicly, and didn't address the issues that landed these homes in the auction pool get vaunted as a 'Hail Mary'?

"I'm not sure what caused the rush to happen at the last second, there was a whole year to think about this," said Loveland Technologies CEO Jerry Paffendorf, who was at the roundtable when the assessor's plan was dropped. "For that to shake out when it did was wild. It was a brazen plan. It happened quickly and late and it happened urgently. I don't know what causes that."

According to Paffendorf, when the plan was announced — "casually and matter of factly" — the room went so silent you could hear a pin drop. There were just so many questions.

One of the biggest inquiries had to do with the fact that poverty tax exemptions — while a piece of the tax foreclosures jigsaw — are not retroactive. Since foreclosures are based on delinquent taxes going back three years (2014-16 this year), a person getting a poverty tax exemption in 2017, would not, under typical circumstances, get to remove their home from the auction.

"If you just follow the logic through of just getting the poverty tax exemption, that doesn't help you necessarily," said Peter Hammer, director of the Damon J. Keith Center for Civil Rights. "It doesn't eliminate the old taxes, it doesn't change the debt you owe unless they were willing to make a number of other concessions."

That issue — along with others about timing and outreach — according to Paffendorf, were politely brushed aside.

And because "miracles" had been known to happen before — the right circumstance leading to the removal of a property from an auction — organizations like UCHC operated under the assumption the plan would be approved. The group helped roughly 25 owner-occupants fill out poverty exemption forms after the low-key announcement.

When the county treasurer ultimately declined to move forward with the plan — something he technically could have accepted as the auction rules say all sales can be voided up until the issuing of a deed — he's comments focused on the future. They were getting ready for next year's auction, he said.

For those working to keep people in their homes, the news was dispiriting, but also a reminder of the norm that has persisted.

"Maybe it's a sign of getting older, but I'm beyond sick of hearing: 'we can do something next year,' " said Ted Phillips the executive director of UCHC, who added that over the past few years his organization had suggested numerous plans that could have saved homes and never came to be. "We hear it all the time. Then 'next year' gets here and 'next year' it's always 'next year.' It's never this year."

Detroit assessor Alvin Horhn, for his part, contends his efforts were well-intentioned but were never meant to be seen as a guarantee.

"We tried to convey the importance of filling out a poverty exemption application with a possibility of some help, but without making any promises," he wrote in a text message Tuesday, noting that the decision to approach the treasurer to remove homes from auction came from his office alone. "I take responsibility for any heightened expectations."

Those working to end the sale of occupied homes, however, remain unconvinced.

"You can see how poorly planned and opportunistic this last effort was as evidence of a much larger story of the city not taking the auction of occupied tax foreclosed homes very seriously," said Hammer.

Colvin grew up in a bare-bones four-room cottage in West Virginia; to go to the bathroom, he and his siblings had to slip outside and venture over to the outhouse.

He remembers his humble beginnings and viewed his house as having "made it.”

When he moved to Detroit in the 1970s he began saving, eventually in 2002 entering into a land contract to buy his home for $61,000. Years later, he took out a mortgage, which he struggled to pay off. He was eventually, in 2009, able to buy the house from the bank for $10,000.

"I ain’t trying to buy no mansion, I am trying to buy — " he paused last Thursday, realizing the issue wasn't about being able to purchase something, he had already paid in full for his house. This was about being able to stay and lay claim to something he already owned.

"Well, I paid for this one," he continued. "I paid for this little bitty house, so I could have a place to live and die."

While Colvin had known his house was up for auction for months, he believed he would be safe. He had taken every precaution he possibly could to save it. First, he went to get help from the Step-Forward program run by the Michigan State Housing Development Authority, which uses Hardest Hit Funds.

A total of $761 million in federal Hardest Hit Funds have been given to Michigan since 2010. The money was originally earmarked to help families hit by the economic and housing crisis. Half of the funds, however, have been re-appropriated for demolitions, with $260 million going directly to the Detroit Land Bank. Colvin went to try to get some of the funding for its original intention.

He was not successful.

In order to get Hardest Hit Funds, a person needs to prove they have a verifiable income. Colvin, at the time, did not have one. The accident had made it difficult to work and he was having some issues with his Social Security checks at the time.

Turned away, he eventually linked up with UCHC. With just his $735-a-month disability checks, Colvin began saving up. One big issue, however, came in the tangle of bureaucracy. The 62-year-old's Social Security checks had been improperly discontinued and when the department realized its error, it agreed to pay him the back pay of about $6,000.The funds, however, would be broken up into $2,000 increments.

With a lump sum, Colvin believed he could have paid his back taxes and avoided foreclosure, but the system didn't shake out that way.

Michele Oberholtzer of UCHC, who had been working with Colvin to keep his house, was adamant that they would find a way to unknot the red tape that seemed to stand between him and his home. She wrote a letter to the Social Security Administration on his behalf asking for the pay to come all at once. They declined, however, because she did not request a specific amount but spoke in broad terms.

"If he had been getting his money all along he probably would have been able to avoid foreclosure, and then once the error was identified and it was understood he was owed back payments, if he would have received that money in a lump sum we could have purchased the home and this was preventable," said Oberholtzer, who also runs the Tricycle Collective, an organization that raises funds to help buy back occupied homes.

The group raised more than $30,000 this year and as Oberholtzer helped people bid on their homes last week, she'd donate a couple thousand onto various bids if it seemed like it would possibly help the person get their home.

"The loss of his home was preventable," she continued, thinking of Colvin.

Predicting an outcome, or seeing the big picture can be hard at the moment. Oberholtzer doesn't know why now, but at the time she never worried too much about Colvin. She believed it would all work out in his favor.

Hearing the news last Thursday that the house sold for a staggering $15,000, she felt rattled. It defied expectation. A house three doors down, for example, sold for $1,200 in the 2012 auction.

"We did absolutely everything we could for Steve," she said, pointing out the countless programs and tactics UCHC had employed to try and help Colvin.

"For him to lose his house is just such a clear example of how unnecessary and avoidable this whole tax foreclosure mess is," she continued. "He told me 'I'm not gonna lose my house ' and we both believed it. Ultimately, he was a sitting duck in the auction came."

The sale of Colvin's house for such a high price worried Oberholtzer about Colvin's future, but also the precedent that was now being set, where homeowners — with all the equity that entails — are being turned into renters.

Weeks earlier, on Oct. 15, a note was left on Colvin's door explaining that the house was scheduled to sell in the auction.

"I am interested in buying and would like to keep you in the home as a tenant," the note, signed by Adolf Lane, read. "If you're interested in staying and paying rent please let me know."

Lane told the Free Press he was leaving the notes for a friend who did not, in the end, bid on the house.

“I’ll tell you I wish I bought it if I had the money," Lane said. "They’re good investments. I shouldn’t say I wish I got his, but I wish I could invest. I didn’t pick up anything in the auction."

Who ended up buying the house will be unclear until the deeds are issued — something that should be coming in the next few weeks. Whether or not the new owner will let Colvin stay as a renter is unclear, but even if they do, Oberholtzer says this is part of the problem.

"As we know, that will just spiral. All Steve's income will be spent on rent," she said. "It’s not going to get better. He’s not going to get more income as he ages. He’s not going to come back from this. If this hard time equals him losing his shelter, his rest of his life his income will be spent on that. That’s real."

Colvin, of course, is one of many. This year UCHC helped 178 people — many with families and children — bid on their homes in the auction. Of that number, they were only successful in winning back 41 homes. A big part of this had to do with the fact that homes were just going for more money.

Phillips from UCHC is leery of pinning the uptick in sales prices on any one thing, but he doesn't mince words when it comes to the roughly 2,000 homes — and their occupants — that ended up in this position.

"One of the most frustrating things is there is just this general attitude of folks, particularly in government, that everyone had their chance and that there is something different about the folks who ended up in foreclosure versus those who did something earlier in the year," said Phillips."The reality is very often there isn't. It's simply a matter of who we got to in time, or who got the letter at the right time, or who got a job three months earlier. It's not this huge difference where folks are just sitting on their hands ignoring everything. That isn't the world I see."

In September city, county and community leaders gathered to celebrate a drop in the number of foreclosures. The county went from 28,000 foreclosures in 2015 to less than 7,000 this year.

Treasurer Sabree touted an interest rate reduction program that Wayne County had started. It allowed homeowners to enter payment plans and pay delinquent taxes at an interest rate of 6%, which dramatically cut foreclosures. There were about 36,000 people in payment plans at the time, according to Sabree.

The progress was noteworthy but there was still an elephant in the room: occupied-homes continuing to be a part of the statistics.

"Auctioning occupied homes has become so normalized in Detroit that we are celebrating only selling 2,000-some this year," said Paffendorf, before listing a series of options that officials could take to remove all occupied properties from the auction. "It comes down to a choice: are we a county and a city that sells grandma's house to strangers over the Internet? Right now we still are."

When Sabree was asked whether or not he has discretion when it comes to deciding what does and doesn't go into the auction, his spokesperson responded in writing, saying the question was "very complicated and a moot point given the auctions are concluded."

Still, as Colvin showed last week, coming to terms with a new fate can be difficult when you're still trying to understand the past that brought you there.

It has been nearly two-decades since he purchased his little bungalow but the amount of stuff piled high in his den made it seem more like a century. The room was a physical collage of Colvin's life. If he lost his house, what would that say about him? What would it say about his life? His face scrunched up as he tried to process it all.

"Everything in here is me. I don’t know how I would move," he said. "I’ve been here almost 40 years. I’m not going back to West Virginia. I can’t even tell my people that I’m in this shape. The only thing I can figure is just homeless."