Understanding a place is about understanding its rhythms. Here on Kiefholzstraße, the rhythm is scurrying children’s feet in the late morning and early afternoon. Babies laugh and coo and cry paces beyond the trailer’s door. On the other side, mothers open and shut washing machine doors, sandals slapping against their heels as they glide across the courtyard to another household task. Teenage girls twitter by, phones pinging through their denim pockets. Teenage boys move more slowly, shuffling between loose gravel and clean, clear concrete. Men’s bicycle locks clink and unclink metal on metal throughout the day. In the wee hours, thousands of leaves bristle in unison.