Down from the kitchen on the back porch is the hill to the parking lot. It rolls down a 45 degree incline to a cement curb which holds the cars in place and holds the leaves as the fall into a plaster cover of reds and yellow. The ivy leers from above me, leaking up from the north side of the house to the lattice siding. Looking past the parking lot is the thin tree line which hides the church camp behind, all I can make out is the compost bin and the plastic play area. Beyond that a line of houses which I cannot see from here, rows of houses lining the warped and weathered Burbank road. And houses and houses and houses, until finally the fields take over.