I’ve been to almost every small town in the three states and seven counties whose men were drawn to the coal mine’s rich veins, visiting every dead miner’s widow and every injured miner and his family and extending the company’s condolences and appreciation but I’ve never been to this one where I arrive in pounding March rain on my way to the last visit of the day after following detour signs of which I have seen none for twenty minutes on a twisting road through barren hills and I am tired and hungry and face at least forty miles to the city and my wife and the dashboard clock says quarter to seven but it feels like quarter to midnight and I want a quick bite or at least coffee and to take my foot off the gas and unclench my hands and when streetlights beckon I slow and cruise the town’s two-block main drag and park in front of one of the store fronts with lights still on and bolt out of the car so fast I forget the umbrella that I don’t need because rain is now thick fog I almost have to push it away but at every door I approach windows go dark and Open becomes Closed and shades are drawn and no one answers and I give up and decide to get back on the road and feel in my right pants pocket for my keys and find a handkerchief and loose change but no wallet so I try every pocket in my pants then my suit jacket then my raincoat and do it all over again and check the street and the sidewalk and I look up and see a ray of light slip from an apartment window above a dark store front as someone lifts a slat in the blinds to peer out but when I shout the light disappears.