Brothers share a smoke at a gun range near Swisher, Iowa. (2002)

For now, the sun is sinking as my car nears Iowa City, and the whole of the state is socked in fog. I know the town of Hills sits just east of the highway, and I can’t help but think of Frazier’s stunning photograph of a lone farmhouse, locked in snowy silence, the only sign of life the smoke spiriting from the chimney and the barn light casting long shadows across the field. But tonight, even the faint lights of Hills flickering to life are nothing more than ghosts in the mist.