As we drove down to Boise I kept seeing these houses along the side of the highway and they seemed so exposed, so laid open to the eyes of those traveling down the highway. And each house was like a piece of micro fiction: the toys little dots of colour on the green or brown lawns; the collections of broken down farming equipment or old cars; the trailers, leaning warmly against the houses or seemingly banished to a lonely corner of the property surrounded by poplar trees (for a relative down on their luck? For an estranged spouse? For a teenaged child needing more privacy, wanting to express their independence?).