This is an opinion column

Ten years ago, my husband and I were in an Uber headed toward the airport in San Francisco. We had an early flight back to Alabama, and the sun was just coming up. I looked out to see a long string of cars, headlights off, hugging the curb leading up to the departure area.

Some were vans and SUVs, but most were modest sedans. I could barely make out their shapes in the early morning fog. I asked the Uber driver if they got there extra early to park and fly and avoid paying parking fees in the airport’s huge lot. She said no, that wasn’t it.

Their cars were parked there because the people lived in them. They’d move them to another place when they had to, but most of the car-dwellers had to get ready for work and worry about the cars later. They’d get fined, of course, but a city that size couldn’t keep up with all of those people dressing, waking kids up for school, and getting themselves out the door in time.

The car door.

At this Thanksgiving season most of us don’t think to be thankful for the most basic things: Walls and ceilings. Rooms. A shower with really hot water. A safe space to leave our things—our computers and shoes and toiletries and televisions and bedding. If you don’t have a bed, you don’t need bedding, but you have to stay warm. That’s why there’s a tangle of blankets in those cars that double as houses.