A row of seven weathered metal trailers sat back in the shade of three huge water oaks.

I pulled the Buick onto the shoulder beside a rusted tractor rim overgrown with wild morning glories.

The third mailbox on the left was painted white, with faded stick-on letters that spelled SULLIVAN.

Somebody had tried to scratch off the last four letters with a pocketknife, leaving deep gray gouges in the metal.

I shut off the engine and sat in the quiet car for five minutes.

My palms lay flat on the vinyl steering wheel.