Sometimes the door to our 45th Street apartment building won’t open because there is someone sleeping on the other side using a morning newspaper as a pillow. As I wedge my bike through the door, signs of my “normal” day begin: passengers piling on the 44, regulars streaming from the coffee shop, and kids walking to school.

When my husband and I moved to Wallingford four years ago, I only saw evidence of homelessness when spotting the odd tent or two around I-5. Now I see the signs more visibly throughout our neighborhood far from freeway underpasses – sidewalk sleeping, …