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I passed it quickly and checked the pumps, then made my way back. But lake wobegon as lake wobegon I approached the vent fan in the tunnel for the second time that night, I could hear human voices screaming, and with each step, the volume and intensity of the screaming increased: I was sure I was hearing the voices of those people in Nagasaki and Hiroshima as Little Boy and Fat Man did their thing, the terrible thing they were designed to do, releasing the radiance of a thousand suns all at once. Nuclear energy. As I rode the lake wobegon cage up towards surface, the intensity of that moment gradually passed away, and I went on with my work. Thirty years later, when I look back to that time, I recognize that my whole life has been one constant blur of psychic numbness. Through the collective efforts and will of my extended family, elders, and mentors, I have been able to push back the edges of that numbness, at least enough to see, in a brief gap of clarity on the distant horizon, a question taking shape—a question-mark-shaped cloud that will someday soon grow to fill the entire sky above our heads: We
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