We know these United States of the marginalized or the downtrodden, of the white low-middle class. Rob Rice sets up his camera there, attentive to a small community gathered around a family. This family survives as best it can in a shack surrounded by bric-a-brac, stuck on the side of a road between city and desert, the railway not far away, in a space without qualities near Los Angeles. This immersion is achieved through the detour of fiction, Rice choosing to attribute to the initial couple an invented daughter, and to make her the beginning and pivot of the story. The chronicle follows in the footsteps of direct cinema, with its mobile camera and the sketches as if caught on the fly. In this familiar setting of white proletarian America, with pool games, and as a backdrop carcasses of cars and other stripped-down caravans, fiction weaves before our eyes a generous story, giving substance to this society of invisibles so often covered in clichés. Far from any judgment, without any flourish, Rob Rice takes care of each of his characters. Assisted by this small troupe, a community brought together by the film, Rice draws destinies captured in the ordinary of life and its pitfalls. The illness—the very real one of the father—is a drama that haunts the film and leads it towards an unexpected closure. Between epic drama and the construction of visibility, this first film is carried by the sumptuous and melancholic beauty of its twilight images.