The door of the smaller elevator in our wing always squeaks the same three note sequence when it opens: a brief squawk somewhere above middle C, then up a minor third and down a fifth. I only hear it when there isn't much other sound, such as when I take the elevator to the nurses' office first thing in the morning. The same melody opens Laurie Anderson's "Example #22," so that song often gets stuck in my head on the way down.

Much of the night and day are eerily quiet. There aren't any alerts between midnight and about 1:30 PM. I've gotten so attuned to listening for and reacting to them that for much of that time it feels like something is wrong.

Since it's Friday, the only day on which supper is meat-based rather than dairy, the staff delivers the meals differently. At breakfast time, they only bring us breakfast. At lunchtime, they bring us both lunch and supper. The lunch is in sealed metal trays within a plastic bag. Supper is served directly onto plates. That's counter-intuitive -- it would seem that the later meal would be more sealed up. Some residents get confused and eat what is served for supper first.

The 1:30 alert interrupts my lunch. I head down to the shelter. It's crowded. Something has set off all the dogs, so the soundscape is full of barking and growling.

Most of the chairs in the shelter are sturdy but movable, with metal frames and padded fabric seats and backs, the kind you find in event spaces where people need to shift them around.

A young boy drags a chair to the middle of the room, flips it so that the back is on the floor, and sits on the padded edge. Several women tell him to use it properly. He picks it up, balances it on one leg, and spins it. "Like this?" The grandmothers are not amused.

There are three more alerts during the rest of the day: at 5 PM (possibly timed to mess up people preparing to light Shabbat candles), 7:30 PM (to interrupt supper), and 11 PM (to annoy people who had already gone to bed).

That feels normal now, here in the city that doesn't get to sleep much anymore.