A cloud of coal dust choked deeply into Howard Reed's lungs.He almost stopped the mail truck he was driving to vomit into the sparse weeds that had been sun-baked by the side of the road.He didn't stop, but coughed desperately, spit out his saliva, tightened his internal organs, and stepped up the accelerator.Dump trucks rumbled along the mine haulage road that he was intent on speeding through.Like a carnival of confetti as they drive, they keep throwing coal particles into the air.A fire ignited in a nearby waste coal pile, and spontaneous combustion, which is common, has filled the air in the area with sulfur dioxide.They float up into the atmosphere, react with oxygen to form sulfur trioxide, combine with water molecules to form a powerful compound, and fall back to the ground as toxic acid rain.This is not a delicacy that the ecological environment of the earth is eager for.

Reed's mail delivery van was a Ford Explorer.It's eighteen years old, the exhaust pipes are rattling, and the transmission is about to fall apart.His hands gripped tightly to the special gear, keeping the car on track on the badly damaged tarmac.The car is his personal property and has been modified to allow him to drive in the passenger seat and stuff stacks of mail into mailboxes along the way.This is accomplished by a set of something like a fan belt drive mounted on the car.With it, Reed can control the steering, brakes and accelerator from the right side of the car. After working as a country postman and learning to drive on the "wrong" side of the vehicle, Reed had always wanted to travel to England to try out his new driving skills on the roads there.All drivers in the UK drive on the right side of the car and drive on the left side of the road.He had heard that the tradition dated back to jousting on horseback.Most people are right-handed, and warriors on horseback always want their swords or spears to be in the closest position to their opponents.Reed's wife scoffed at the idea, calling him an idiot who wanted nothing more than to lose his life on foreign soil.

Reed drove past the mountain, or rather where the mountain had been.Trent Mining has blown up entire mountains to mine the buried rich coal seams.Today it looks like the surface of the moon, denuded and pitted.This is due to a method of operation known as surface mining.In Reed's view, it would be more appropriate to call it ecocide in broad daylight. Still, this is West Virginia.Most of the more decent-paid jobs here are provided by the coal industry.So when the cistern that handles the slime water overflowed, flooding his family's house, Reed didn't flinch.For the well water that is black in color and smells like rotten eggs, Reed is also indifferent to the substances that have been permanently filled in the air and are difficult to live in harmony with human beings.He has had a kidney removed, and his liver and lungs have been damaged as a result of being in such a toxic environment, but he also doesn't complain.Otherwise, he would be seen as a guy who has trouble with coal mines and, by extension, employment opportunities.Reid didn't want to bring himself any more trouble.

He turned a corner on the road to deliver the last mail of the day.It is registered and must be signed by the recipient.He had seen it this morning as he was loading the car with today's mail, and had cursed.Signing means he has to deal with someone else face to face.All Reed wanted to do now was drive to Dowler's as quickly as possible.That bar sells beer for twenty-five cents every Monday.There, Reed could sit on the battered stool at the end of the peach-colored wood-paneled bar and try to forget about going home.Because, his wife would smell alcohol on his breath and spend the next four hours blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.

His car drove onto a gravel road.It used to be a pretty nice neighborhood—well, if you were here in the 1950s.Today it has decayed.No one can be seen around, the yards of each family are empty, and even the children have disappeared, as if it is not two o'clock in the afternoon but two o'clock in the morning.On a hot summer day like this, the kids are supposed to be running up and down the lawn next to the sprinklers and playing hide and seek.But Reed understands that the children nowadays don't play like this anymore.They stay in an air-conditioned house and play video games.They were so violent, bloodthirsty, and hideous that Reed firmly forbade his grandchildren from bringing them into his home.

The yards of these residents are piled with all kinds of useless things and dirty plastic toys.Dilapidated, rusty Fords and Dodges were abandoned in the corner, looking like they hadn't seen them for ages.The house's cheap siding was chipped and chipped, and every part of the facade needed repainting.What's more, the roofs are on the verge of collapse. It seems that God exerts invisible but powerful pressure on these houses in the sky.All this made Reed feel sad, and it also aroused his desire for beer more strongly, because the neighborhood he lived in was almost the same as this one.He knew that there were some privileged folk who made good money mining coal, but none of them lived in such a community.

He took the mail out of the car and walked towards the recipient's house with heavy steps.An old two-story building with plastic panels on the outer walls.The white door of the blockboard has been covered with scars, and there is a transparent glass door in front of it.The porch has a wheelchair ramp built out of plywood.The shrubs in front of the house were poorly pruned and dying, their wainscoting buckled by straggling branches.In addition to the black Ford that Reed had just parked on the private driveway on the gravel road, there were already two cars parked: one was a Chrysler minivan and the other was a new Lexus sedan.

Reed stood there admiring the Japanese-made Lexus.Such a car could cost him more than a year's salary.He touched the blue metallic paintwork respectfully, noticing a pair of aviator-style sunglasses hanging from the rearview mirror, a briefcase and a green suit lying on the back seat. jacket.Both vehicles had Virginia license plates. Reed continued walking, around the wheelchair ramp, up the steps of three square logs and concrete, and rang the doorbell. The ringing of the bell in the house came back to his ears.He waits.ten seconds.twenty seconds.He was a little annoyed. He rang the doorbell again.

"Hey! I'm the postman. There's mail and I need your signature." His voice, which he had hardly used throughout the working day, sounded weird, as if someone else was speaking there. He looked down at the flat mail in his hand, about eight inches wide by eleven inches long.Attached is a receipt that requires a signature.Hurry up, it's too hot, Dowler's is waiting for me. Reed looked again at the label on the mail and called out, "Mr. Halvorson?" Reed didn't know the recipient, but he already knew the name from delivering mail in the past.Reed was not one of the rural postmen who befriended their clients.What he needs is beer, not communication with other people.

He rang the bell again and rapped hard on the glass door with his knuckles.He reached out and wiped the sweat dripping down his neck.His neck was tanned, the result of sitting all day with the window open and enduring the harsh sun, which could be considered an occupational disease. Sweat from the armpits had soaked the shirt.He never closes the car windows or turns on the air conditioner.Gasoline is too expensive to waste it. Reed raised his voice. "Hey, I'm the postman and I need your signature. If I take the mail back, you may never see it again." He could see the steam around him, and he felt dizzy .He's too old for this job.

He glanced at the two cars.Someone should be in the house.He stepped back from the door and raised his head to observe.No one peeped at him through the two upper dormer windows.One window was open, making the house's pitched roof look like a one-eyed dragon.He started knocking again. Finally, he heard movement in the house, and noticed that the wooden door was opened a few centimeters.The sound came very close, but stopped again. Reed was a little deaf, otherwise he would have noticed that it was a strange footstep. "The postman. Your signature, please," he called. Reed licked his parched lips.He seemed to see a twenty-five-cent glass of beer in his hand. Enjoy it. Damn it, open the door quickly. "Do you still want your email?" he asked. I don't care about that.Just throw the mail somewhere in a ravine, it's not like I haven't done that before. At last the door opened a little more.Reid opened the half-hidden glass door and held out his hand holding the mail. "Do you have a pen?" he asked. The door opened wider, and Reed couldn't help blinking.No one stood there, and the door opened completely by itself.Reed looked down, and a small collie looked back at him.Its pointed muzzle and long fur-covered hindquarters rock back and forth.Obviously, the door was opened by the dog. Reed is not one of those dry, emotionless postmen.He loves dogs and has two of his own. "Hey, hello, buddy." He bent his knees. "Hello," he scratched the dog's ear, "is anyone home? Maybe you want to sign for yourself?" Reed touched the wet dog's fur, thinking that the puppy had wet himself, so he quickly withdrew his hand.He looked down at his palm and found something bright red and sticky. Blood. "Are you hurt, little one?" He examines the puppy.More blood was found, but no wounds could be seen. "What's going on?" Reid muttered to himself. He stood up and grabbed the doorknob with one hand: "Hey! Is anyone there? Hello?" He looked back, not knowing what to do.He looked at the puppy again.The puppy was still staring at him, looking very sad.Another thing is very strange, the dog has not barked yet.Reed's own two dumb dogs could knock down the house with their barking if they saw a stranger on the doorstep. "Damn it," Reed muttered under his breath. "Hello?" He yelled loudly, "Is everything okay at home?" He slowly moved into the house.The temperature in the room is very high.An unpleasant smell made Reed wrinkle his nose.If it wasn't for an ominous feeling that made his head go numb, the smell would have been even more difficult for him to accept. "Hey! There's a lot of blood on your dog. Is there anything wrong here?" He took a few more steps in, passed through the small hallway, and glanced at the corner of the small living room. In an instant, the wooden door slammed open, the doorknob slammed heavily on the wall, and then the glass door was also slammed heavily on the iron railing of the porch on the left, and the glass was completely shattered.Howard Reed jumped from the top step to the ground, trembling all over, fell to his knees, and vomited out what was left in his stomach.Then he stood up and staggered to his car, coughing, retching, and uttering a horrific howl like a sudden insanity. His mind was indeed deranged. Howard Reed can't go to Dowler's today.