BOSTON — It was standing-room only inside a cramped Hampton Inn conference room on Mass Ave, as Boston residents packed in for a showdown over Mass & Cass. Dozens were stuck in the hallway, many never made it through the doors, and those who did found themselves pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the overheated room.

The crowd came ready to speak, but frustration boiled as soon as testimony began. Residents were capped at two minutes, while elected officials stretched their remarks at will. State Rep. Chynah Tyler even shrugged it off, saying she would “go over” anyway. Neighbors who had waited hours were cut short, while politicians filibustered.

The anger sharpened when two shelter directors from Hampden County started talking about programs in western Massachusetts. Residents erupted — this wasn’t Springfield. Chants of “Mass & Cass! Mass & Cass!” filled the room until the focus snapped back to Boston’s streets.

Against that tense backdrop, a few figures stood out. Councilor Ed Flynn called Mass & Cass a crisis and vowed to stay “until midnight” if that’s what it took. Former Councilor Frank Baker, now running citywide, drew applause for pushing common-sense answers that residents say City Hall has ignored. Later, mayoral candidate Josh Kraft entered to hugs and handshakes, one of the few moments of warmth in a night otherwise fueled by anger.

Others fared far worse. Councilor Sharon Durkin — who blocked an earlier Mass & Cass emergency resolution — arrived almost an hour after the hearing began and at times appeared disinterested, slouched over her phone. Residents shouted “Shame! Shame!” One participant muttered she looked more interested in her screen than the neighborhood outside.

The hearing then turned to gut-punch testimony. The owner of Doña Habana, a Cuban restaurant steps from the encampment, broke down in tears. She said she had drained her 401k to keep her doors open, paying out of pocket for smashed windows and sweeping syringes from her property. Customers, she explained, make reservations but refuse to leave their cars once they see addicts slumped outside her restaurant. “I am very tired. I don’t have anymore strength to fight,” she cried. “We pay your salary. You have to do something for us.”

Step outside the hearing and the city’s failure hits you in the face. Kids walk past men slumped on playground fences. Stoops that once held flowerpots are now crash pads. Sidewalks glitter with broken glass and used needles — one of them pierced the foot of a four-year-old not long ago. Break-ins blur into routine, shop windows stay boarded, and what used to be quiet blocks now look like an outpost of Mass & Cass.

Inside the room, those same fears poured out in testimony. A South End couple described their nightmare: an intruder moved into their condo, slept in their bed, and ended up defecating in their living room. The story rattled the room — a chilling reminder that even your own sofa isn’t safe.

As the wife walked back to her seat, one progressive activist sneered, “Don’t leave your key out next time.” She, visibly shaken, shot back that the key had been stolen. The nasty exchange summed up the night: residents begging for safety, while activists mocked them and sided with the chaos.

And then came the moment that shook the room. Flynn pressed Mayor Wu’s health chief for a number: how many needles does the city of Boston give out? Dr. Bisola Ojikutu finally answered: “About 80,000 per month.”

Gasps filled the air. Ojikutu scrambled to frame it as “harm reduction,” but the number landed like a grenade. To residents who already see Mass & Cass spilling into their once peaceful streets, it sounded less like a health strategy and more like City Hall running a supply chain.

The night ended with progressive activists standing outside waving signs defending addicts and protesting enforcement. Their message clashed sharply with neighbors who pleaded for order. To many in the room, it was the final insult: families desperate for safety on one side, activists openly siding with Wu’s open-air drug zone on the other.

By the end, exhaustion hung heavy in the stale hotel air. Residents said they were finished with “meeting after meeting” while families live in fear and businesses collapse. Outside, addicts still slump on stoops and schoolyards, sidewalks are carpeted with needles, and neighbors brace for the next petty break-in.

The mood of the room was unmistakable: the crisis has gone on too long, and patience has run out. Many signaled they would vote against Wu in November, blaming her for letting Mass & Cass spiral. As one chant spread through the crowd, it carried a message sharper than any testimony: if you want change, vote for change — and the room erupted in cheers.