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He rolled the truck carefully around the edge, still with an eye to not getting caught in a back-up situation. The open doorless Piper vehicle exposed him completely to the panorama of the far off parallel mountain to the north and that of the sandwiched valley below. What drew him here, overlooking Patterstown? Dad still worked down there, pulling college tuition from vapor. As if squeezed in a vice between the two mountains, South and North, the city was wrung dry. It was a city in decay, past its glory as the silk capital of the world. The valley below was called the coffin for so many reasons. From here it actually looked like one. The Colt 45, invented and produced here long ago, contributed to the notoriety of the west, but very little if anything to the inhabitants of the greater region of the North Ward. No. Nobody here drew life from the gun. Silk was the muscle. Dye was the blood. Fabric mills, row upon row, were once counterpoised by sprawling dye and sizing plants. Ties, sheets, and all manner of fashion for women derived from this coffer. In a to-the-death shoot out competition with nature, synthetics nailed this coffin shut. How many children lost childhood down there to the Patterstown sweat shops, in piece work instead of school work? How many young men lost their lungs and longevity to volcanic chemically blistering dye atmospheres saturating the workplace? How many young women were demeaned in enslaving subjugation to the looms? Injured children were simply swept away and replaced. There was no provision for wounded. War was kinder. Battles do not punch such a daily clock of abuse. It was once a valley of caterwauling. There was no quiet on any front. Half the population of the city was nearly deaf by their thirties. Men shouting at each other on street corners were not in conflict, just conversation. Their ears were gone. Ability to shout was considered healthy, made a man a good marriage prospect. This was, after all, also TB town. Patterstown and the