I stand outside the dining hall like a carnival barker, waving my arms and calling to passing residents: "We will be doing Kiddush right now, inside, near the kitchen doors."

A few people come in. Some of them were early for supper anyway.

We weren't sure until after noon if either or both of the supper shifts would begin with an official Kiddush for this last night of Passover. The staff finally made an official decision. We're only doing it before the first shift.

We're letting people know by word of mouth. They aren't sending out a WhatsApp message. They're concerned that so many people might show up, in addition to the people from floors 1 and 2 who will already be there for the first shift, that there might be too many of us for the shelter in case of a missile alarm.

I find out just before lunch. I start to tell some people as we're eating, but we're interrupted by an alarm. In the hubbub and the rush to the shelter, I don't get the word out effectively.

When it's time to start Kiddush, one of the caregivers runs back to get me. I join a few people standing near the front, where my relative who usually does it is about to start. He announces the timing of synagogue services for the morning, reminding everyone that they will include the memorial Yizkor service, then begins Kiddush.

I look around the gathered residents as he chants it. I see that one other man has shown up, but that the other several dozen people are all women. That's about what I expect. Women outnumber men by about five to one among the residents, and few of the men are interested in the rituals.

I head back upstairs to visit with the rest of my family. Sure enough, within moments, there's another alarm. We sit in the protected hallway outside their apartment, since it wouldn't be possible for all of us to get down to the shelter in time.

When we get the all-clear, we go back and sit in their apartment for a few minutes, until there's yet another alarm. This time, I go down to the shelter alone. It's almost time for supper for the second shift anyway.

The shelter is packed. I don't recognize some of the people. I hear one tell a worker that he had been driving nearby with his family when the alarm sounded. They knew that we had a shelter in the building, so they ran in. That's good. Everyone is welcome.

When the alarm ends, I head into the dining hall. The staff has gone all-out in creating a festive dinner. The main entrée is tongue, with a side of baked avocados. Each table is arrayed with a green salad with orange slices, a plate of halved cherry tomatoes, a bowl of sliced beets, baked potatoes, a sort of chocolate cake, and grapes and slices of honeydew melon. We have cups of the grape juice upon which Kiddush had been said and bottles of water.

At supper, I speak with a woman whom I had never met, though I think she's been a resident for close to a year. I ask her her name. She responds with her name in Hebrew, and how she chose it based on her original Yiddish name, and stories of her upbringing and of her father. "He was a good man, a religious man. He died with the Psalms on his lips. I was the third of three daughters, and now I'm the last." I nod and listen, understanding what I can. I don't need to prompt her with more questions.

When I'm done eating, I take an unused bowl and collect some food to bring to the members of my family who are eating upstairs. (The food that we get when eating in our rooms rarely is varied as what we are served in the dining hall, mostly due to the logistics of getting it to them.) We're usually not supposed to take dishes from the dining hall out of there, but since we're using disposable dishes for Passover, I figure that we can get away with it. I still hide what I'm doing as well as I can, to avoid questions.

I bring them food that I know that they will like and that is allowed in their medically-restricted diets: the cherry tomatoes, melon slices, and a foil-wrapped baked potato. They appreciate it.

I head back to my apartment and sit down to write this. I have little doubt that we'll have alarms tonight. The 48-hour deadline that the US gave Iran before all hell breaks loose hits at 3 AM our time. There will probably be retaliation, or worse. I'll just continue as usual. I will either sleep or not sleep. The routine without a routine continues on.