Matthew is running late. He races the summer storm enroute to White Bird Clinic, maneuvering his 18-speed mountain bike around parked cars and through deep puddles on the slick streets of Eugene, Oregon. When he reaches the pale blue house with the wide front porch and the large picture windows on East 12th, he carries his bike up the concrete steps and pushes it against the thick front door of the clinic. The door squeaks open, the string of sleigh bells looped over the back jingling for a moment before the door slams shut.

"Speaking of bozos, look what the storm blew in," says Tara, her voice warm and welcoming.

With her ready smile and relaxed manner, Tara seems more like a suburban mom than a woman who has spent years working with abused women, runaway kids and the homeless.

Matthew responds to her quip with a shy, tight-lipped smile. He parks his bike by the wide wooden desk that dominates the front room, pulls off his poncho and carefully repositions the black baseball cap that partially covers his long, damp, brown ringlets. He checks the clock in the front room. It is 8:08 p.m. "I know, I know, I'm late. Any calls?"

"Yeah, we told all the multiples and chronics to call back when you got here," says Pat, appearing out of the darkened back office. His brilliant copper-red hair is pulled back from his face in a tight ponytail accentuating his gaunt features. A short, wiry man, he radiates nervous energy and acts very much like the lone wolf, long-range reconnaissance patroller he was in Vietnam. Pat has worked part-time on the crisis team at White Bird for several years.

Pat instinctively glances at the large living room windows to see if anyone's hanging out on the front porch. But it's too bright in the clinic to get a good look. He turns off some of the lights. Then he sits on the edge of the large front desk and lets his thin legs dangle as he waits for the phone to ring or the door to open, as he waits for a problem to arrive.

It is another "bummer," the all-night crisis shift at White Bird Clinic, which operates 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Founded in 1970 as a safe haven for hippies on bad trips, the clinic is today a comprehensive health and human services organization that cares for thousands of people each year. It has a multi-million-dollar annual budget and formal relationships with area hospitals, the county mental health department and social service providers.

Over the decades, the private, nonprofit clinic has continued to add new programs and services, while earning recognition from the most unlikely of supporters: bureaucrats, physicians and police. Through all the years and all the changes, the clinic’s crisis intervention program has remained the heart of White Bird's operations.