Two boys, one 10, the other 7, waited in the rain, their clothes soaked, water dripping off their faces. They waited for their sandwiches.

It was early evening, and the Franciscan Peacemakers Street Ministry parked itself on the two-child lot, the asphalt awash with water and wind-blown light that caromed in the wet. Dark, rainy, nasty, cold: For two priests and three volunteers, it was time to go to work. From a van, they handed out sandwiches and sodas to the poor, and they listened.

A woman who sells sex for drugs: "I haven't used in two days."

A boy, about 8, seeing that the back of the van and the side of the van were open: "Which way the sandwiches?"

A boy, 10 or 12, recognized Geraldine Brown, a volunteer.

Brown: "It was real cold one night, and I gave him a coat of mine. He's still wearing it."

A woman, drenched, called into the food van: "Got any jackets or socks?"

They had turkey sandwiches and ham and cheese sandwiches, and they had soda, but they didn't have jackets or socks. Volunteers took her name and the name of another woman. They'd find some jackets and socks. Somewhere. The Franciscans' street effort isn't done on a string. It's done on half of a string.

None of the poor had umbrellas and neither did Father Michael Sullivan, pastor of St. Benedict the Moor and co-director of the Peacemakers, who walked the parking lot, talking with people, ignoring the downpour, his hair plastered to his head. He had worked in Panama, where the rain comes in a "whoooosh," he said, "like you're standing in a waterfall."

This, he claimed, indicating the rain that pelted the lot at N. 16th St. and W. North Ave., was a mere drizzle, so he ignored it.

A tall man: "I run North Ave. Hey, man," he said, addressing a smaller man, "isn't this right -- I'm not the king of New York, but I AM," his voice rising, "THE PRINCE OF NORTH AVE."

The smaller man carried a sack of doughnuts he got from God knows where and a small stick that looked as if it might have been a chair leg. He was the tatters of a man, and his drowsy eyes looked as if they could have been shaded by something chemical.

Man with stick: "I'm the nicest man you'll meet outside of Jesus Christ."

Fifteen minutes later, after 52 sandwiches had been handed out, Brown announced: "We're cleaned out."

Several men were told they'd have to look elsewhere for food. Robert, a young boy terrified of men, did not show up. Sometimes, the priests have to set a soda or food on the ground, then back away from the boy.

Brown, who has tried to make the boy her friend: "I said, 'I promise I won't do anything to you.' I come out here with my heart. I want him to know we care."

A man, who knows everything there is to know about the neighborhood and is its protector, has directed the Franciscans to prostitutes who need help. The first night he saw the van, he demanded the same thing of the priests he demanded of me.

The man: "Who are you?"

The priests and volunteers cruised the north side and the south side, looking for prostitutes to help.

Father Mike: "We have gotten 12 women into rehabilitation programs."

Father Bob: "We used to hand out condoms, but we've run out of them. They were in a health pack we gave out to women. We told the women, 'We're not here to condemn you.' "

As the van headed west on North Ave., Father Bob: "Is that Heading east on W. National Ave., Father Mike: "Tell him how we leased the van."

Father Bob: "The man asked me my income, and I said, 'Zero.' Then he asked me what I would pay myself if I had an income. I said, '30,000.' He said, 'That's good enough, the van's yours.' "

The volunteers -- Brown, Kattie Murphy and Fran Begonja -- laughed.

Going north on S. 5th St., Father Bob: "This is where we've found male prostitutes."

The rain increased, not quite a Panama whoooosh, but a hard, hard fall. Water had washed the streets clean of men looking for prostitutes, who were somewhere, looking for drugs, probably.

Father Mike, quoting St. Francis of Assisi: "We are called to heal wounds, To unite what has fallen apart, And to bring home, those who have lost their way."

In the rain, the dark, the cold, the people in the van continued talking about hungry children who had lost their way.

Father Bob: "For Don, who's about 8, it's a big deal every night for him to say, 'Hi, Bob.' One time -- I think it was Don -- I asked, 'Will your mother get mad? Will this sandwich ruin your supper?' "

Little Don: "What supper?"