Even if you had held your ear against the metal skeleton of the Bear Mountain Bridge that morning you would have sensed the tremor of the lashes, as delicate as the flapping of butterfly wings. Yet nobody did, as nobody knew what was going on in Black Spring. The people in the daily rush-hour traffic between the towns of Highland and Peekskill were listening to WJGK and WPKF. On the road, on their way, on their phones, eating commuter breakfast bagels from paper bags. America was waking up. Good morning, America.
Despite the horror, we all move on, ignorant. One of the dichotomies in this book is how far Black Springs goes to remain outside society, but then in moments like this, it’s pointed out that society doesn’t care. It keeps moving.
