The feed changed to an impossible view of the valley from above; everything lit with a false daylight that revealed all the details hidden by time and dark of night. Leaning closer to the television, the audience could see people performing tasks.

Rivaling Hollywood special effects, the view dropped to the valley floor and wound past the bunkers where men were unloading rail carts into the security enclosures. The camera banked and passed through a small stand of new growth trees, placed for decoration, and aimed for a loading dock at the rear of the massive building.

A man was standing among several other men, yet he was recognizable. They had seen him earlier in the show. He had stood on the bridge and frightened a woman off the span. The same man had knocked her husband unconscious. He did not look so evil now; in fact, he looked tired. As the audience watched, he unbuttoned his coveralls to his waist and fanned his face.

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He smiled at something one of the other men said, possibly a joke, and walked to the far end of the loading dock where a rail cart was just pulling away from the building. The evidence of his work lie around him, piles of heavy boxes that were shuttled out of the building with two-wheeled carts for him to sort and send to separate locations for later shipment.

Staring with rapt attention to the television, many of the viewers understood that the man was frustrated. He wanted to fight a war, to be part of the effort to stamp out the Axis powers, but an inner ear defect had spelled doom to his desires. He was relegated to this backwater to fight the war of production. It was a wound so old now that he never even thought about it as he stretched his sore back and reached into a pocket for a pack of cigarettes.