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and federal inspectors all over him. They’re turning the mine upside down, trying to figure out how Tuck got himself killed.”
    “What do you think happened, Mr. Bolt?” I asked worriedly. “Was Dad to blame?”
    He squirmed a bit. “That’s a good question,” he finally allowed.
    “Yes, sir,” I replied softly. “That’s why I need to hear the answer.”
    He considered my comment, then nodded. “I’ll tell you what I know. There was a big thunderstorm that night, a hellacious storm, lightning firing all around. A big old shagbark hickory tree behind the church got hit, killed it deader’n a hammer. A lot of fans went down, you know how they do. The hoot-owl shift was told not to go inside—too dangerous, what with the fans going in and out, the methane building up down there. Tuck went inside sometime after three o’clock in the morning from what I heard, I guess to inspect his section—10 West. When he drove his motor inside it, the section blew up. It was the fire damp for sure. The blast was so big it lifted the motor completely off the track and tossed it against a row of posts. Then the roof fell down. Tuck was thrown clear. At least they were able to have an open-casket funeral. That was a bit of a comfort to his missus. Just about everybody in Coalwood showed up for it. Never seen so many flowers in my life.”
    I struggled to imagine the blast, which must have been like a red-hot hurricane. “Why would Tuck drive a motor into a section that wasn’t ventilated?”
    Mr. Bolt folded his hands on his desk. He stared at them as if he’d never seen them before. “I’m not a miner, Sonny. Might be a reason I wouldn’t know.” He looked up, gave me a crooked smile. “So what’re you doing home?”
    “I’ll just be here a couple of days,” I said, and left it at that.
    Mr. Bolt nodded. “How does Coalwood look to a college boy?”
    “Older and smaller,” I replied honestly.
    “I don’t know if we’ve shrunk, but none of us are getting any younger around here, that’s for sure.”
    “I didn’t mean you, Mr. Bolt,” I said, rushing to apologize.
    “It’s all right, Sonny. Everybody gets older. That’s the one sure thing in this old world.” He nodded at his machinists, back to their posts. “If you get bored while you’re here, my fellows are always willing to crank you out a rocket or two.”
    “Thanks,” I said, “but I’m out of the rocket business. Without the other boys . . .” I shrugged. “Well, what would it prove?”
    Mr. Bolt eyed me. “What did it
ever
prove?”
    I reflected on his question. “I guess it proved we could go to work for Wernher von Braun someday.”
    “Is that what you still want to do?”
    “Yes, sir,” I said. “I guess I have to.”
    “Attaboy. ‘Have to’ is the start of ‘got done.’ ”
    I thought of the secret man. “Mr. Bolt, what’s wrong with Nate Dooley?”
    He shrugged. “Nate? Nothing, far as I know.”
    “Mom said there was.”
    “Did she?” He smiled. “So how does Elsie like being down in Myrtle Beach? Finally got where she always wanted to be.”
    I told him that she liked it fine. I could tell he wanted to ask me more about her, but he resisted the impulse. As we walked out of his office, he clapped me on my shoulder. “I suppose you’re glad to be out of this old place and all its problems, ain’t ya?”
    I considered my answer and lit on honesty. “Yes, sir, pretty much.”
    “Don’t blame you.”
    I shook Mr. Bolt’s hand, waved at his men, and left. Outside, I found Tag Farmer, Coalwood’s constable, leaning against his car, his arms crossed. When he caught sight of me, he shoved the bill of his officer’s cap up with one finger. “Heard you were back, Sonny,” he said. “Thought we should have a word.”
    Tag looked like he had put on a few pounds since I’d last seen him, but otherwise he wasn’t much different. His company-provided khakis were immaculate as always, and his Sam Browne belt was