SAN DIEGO — For the past four days, the Bright family's life has existed mainly inside six parking spaces. One for each car, one for each tent and two to sit in and wait out the long hours to find out if they, like hundreds of others across this scorched land, lost their home to fire.

They wish they could have had the chance Sunday to evacuate their Ramona apartment. That way they could have grabbed 2-year-old Matthew's asthma inhaler or a change of clothes for 3-year-old Ivy.

But they were visiting family in Arizona when the winds pushed the flames from the Witch fire toward their home, forcing most of their town to evacuate. With nowhere to go after returning from Arizona, Tim and Amanda Bright and Tim's sister, Bonita Bright, took the kids to Qualcomm Stadium, where thousands of others waited out the firestorm.

The first few days weren't too bad. The volunteers were wonderful, they said, offering barbecue and coffee, massages and Bibles, socks and diapers. Amanda cried when she saw all those willing to help. The shock of what may have happened to their home kept them comfortably numb.

But on Thursday, as evacuation orders were lifted for much of the county and the Brights remained at the stadium navigating the confusing, often conflicting maze of their future, weariness descended.

"The shock is over," said Bonita Bright. "Now my anger is kicking in. I'm walking around, stressing out, wondering what is going to happen next."

Even before they were cast into this sea of refugees, the Brights were struggling to get by.

A costly place to live

Tim and Amanda moved into Bonita's two-bedroom apartment a month ago after money grew tight. Despite Amanda taking a job as a city bus driver and Tim working overtime shifts as a tow truck driver, San Diego was just too expensive.

Tim had some cash in his pocket driving back from Arizona on Sunday, but much of that was spent on gasoline when he was repeatedly turned away from the city as it evacuated. After three attempts, he made it into the city and to the stadium.

There, they carved out a little home in the parking lot. Others camped inside the stadium, overlooking the 50-yard line or underneath a hot dog stand, but the Brights wanted a little more space, a little less noise, and settled for their six spaces in section A.

Soon, tents were donated and mattresses were delivered along with camp chairs to sit on. Ivy found a free stuffed animal and Matthew a firetruck to push over the rough asphalt.

Tim feels for everyone who lost something in this fire, but he can't help but wonder if some will have a harder time picking up the pieces.

"There are people in this parking lot who don't own $600,000 homes, who are living day by day, week by week," said Tim, who badly wanted some shaving cream to shave off his salt-and-pepper beard. "I don't even have a gas card, much less a credit card."

Family provider frets

The repo man had called him Wednesday, threatening to take his minivan if he doesn't make a payment soon, he said. As the man of the family, he felt a sense of responsibility to get this resolved, to get things straight again. Amanda asked him not to go back to work and leave them behind in the parking lot.

"I'm worried to death," said Tim, 42. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do as a provider to my family."

Everything about his future is an unknown at this point. They didn't want to spend the money on gas to drive back to Arizona, and kept hoping that any day now they could get back into their apartment.

On Thursday, every time an announcement was made over the loudspeaker, the family craned their necks, hoping to hear something about Ramona. But each time, it was an announcement about breakfast being served or how others could return home. People stopped by their tent to offer cinnamon rolls or Gideon Bibles, and a Scientologist wanted to take a mouth swab to see how stress affects the body.

Frustrated, bored and hungry, the family got ready to take a walk through the stadium.

Tim combed his beard in the reflection of a car window. Bonita grabbed an aluminum turkey pan, three bottles of water and some soap and shaved her legs in the makeshift tub. Matthew begrudgingly let his mom brush his teeth. And they were off.

As they walked and ate a quick breakfast of Hot Pockets and milk, a clown stopped them to sing "It's a Small World After All." They passed clusters of tents and a group of people with oxygen tanks hanging from wheelchairs.

"It's got to be more horrible for them than it is for us by far," Tim said as he walked by and finished his breakfast.

Someone told Bonita that officials were trying to get everyone out of the stadium by Sunday, when the Chargers take on the Houston Texans.

Bonita was irate, fuming about having nowhere to go, nobody taking care of her and venting about FEMA's lack of help.

"We get conflicting information all the time," Amanda said, by way of an explanation of Bonita's frustration.

Tim and Amanda pushed their donated strollers to the security checkpoint, where they showed their Ramona wristbands and were waved in. Inside the stadium, a barrage of signs tacked onto tents offered everything from free international phone calls to complementary acupuncture.

All the Brights wanted was some information.

Amanda asked a police officer about the rumor of having to leave, but he said he didn't know. She asked a FEMA representative, who pointed her toward another officer. She asked a third person who told her to ask outside the stadium.

There, a FEMA representative confirmed the rumor that the stadium was supposed to be empty by Sunday. The FEMA officials said the Brights needed to register with the Red Cross, which hadn't yet set up at the stadium. They suggested the family register with FEMA, but when Amanda said she had, she was told she had to fill out more forms.

Peppered with questions

They went back into the stadium, past the security, and Amanda found the FEMA check-in. The representative gave her his chair, asked how she was and started asking a barrage of questions.

"Are you a homeowner?" he asked.

"We were renters with no insurance," she said.

"What kind of damage occurred?"

"We don't know yet."

"Where are you staying?"

"A nice little condo in parking lot A."

Ten minutes later, she got a card and a case number.

She started to wander over to Red Cross for housing vouchers, but it still wasn't opened, so she stopped at the information booth that has the lists of damaged homes. A man handed her a seven-page address list of destroyed homes in her area before telling her it could be three more days before they are let back in.

Once, twice, Amanda scanned the list. Her address wasn't on it.

"I don't want to get my hopes up," she said, wiping a tear from her tired eye. "But it's a good sign."