By Saturday, the whole town was talking about the Works.

At the Rusty Nail, Brett was holding court.

“I'm in the know,” he told everyone. He was a loan officer at Haddon Savings Bank, and he liked people to think he knew everything. “It's some big developer from Chicago. They're going to knock the whole thing down. Build a giant warehouse. All robots. Maybe twenty jobs, and they'll bring their own people.”

People groaned.

“Told you,” said Dale. “This town's finished.”

Brett saw me at the bar and waved.

“Wyatt! You're good with wood. Maybe they'll let you sweep up the sawdust before they bulldoze the place!”

Everybody laughed again.

I didn't say anything. I just paid for my beer and left.

At the diner, Kristen was refilling ketchup bottles.

“Did you hear?” she said. “They're going to tear it down.”

“That's just Brett talking,” I said.

“Brett's usually wrong,” she admitted. “But not always.”

She looked out of the window, down Main Street, towards the big brick chimney of the Works rising over the trees.

“If they knock it down,” she said quietly, “I think the town goes with it.”