Sublime

If one of the hundreds of statues in the parks was undamaged in 1932, the Park Association couldn’t find it.

The foundation of Stacey’s house cracked. Vibrations rutted the road with industrial-strength potholes that punctured nine tires on her gold Pontiac G6 and cracked a rim. In her deepening ire, she wasn’t alone; in Amity, and all over the drilling epicenter of Western Pennsylvania, the weight and number of trucks destroyed bridges and roads, imperil

Jimmy Lee,

George Hardy’s

pilgrimage.