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amicably, hands still a hammock in front of his crotch.
    â€œSo to start, here’s a machine that measures the amount of additive that’s going into the plastic for garbage bags.”
    A mile of light-green plastic film, stretched taut between one set of rollers and another, climbed the wall next to us in four-foot increments, then over and under the rafters fifty feet above our heads. There were too many machines cluttering the place to see where the film came down exactly. It was cold and my shirt chafed my nipples.
    â€œNow, through here,” Rob yelled, “the guys are running extrusion moulds!”
    Brace-faced Lydia performed ballet turns. Her orthodonture was so severe that confusing her with my Lydia was not possible.
    â€œWhich chemicals exactly are going into the garbage bags?” asked Megan.
    â€œWell!” Rob raised his hands to his chest as if to catch a basketball. “For these bags we’re using polyethylene terephthalate, and we’re taking a chance on that because it’s a lot sturdier than you’ll usually find for a domestic trash bag.”
    â€œIt’s a wonderland!” said Colleen. “Your father would love this, wouldn’t he?”
    â€œAny of this could be on a quiz,” I announced.
    â€œAnd what’s its molecular breakdown?” Megan asked.
    I stood taller in my shoes at that. Harv clicked a ballpoint and prepared to write on his hand—he could not miss this.
    â€œTerephthalate is C₁₀H₈O₄.” Rob thrust a hand out for each element, like he was pat-a-caking the periodic table.
    â€œH₈O₄,” Megan echoed. “That’s a lot of gas for a plastic bag.”
    â€œNo, dude,” Amber hissed out the side of her mouth, “don’t ask that!”
    â€œDo the bags contain coltan?” asked Grace.
    â€œColtan? I don’t know it,” said Rob.
    â€œThey dig for it in the Congo. It’s in lots of things, people don’t even know.”
    â€œNow, not to get off on the wrong foot, Rob,” I called, “but is there anything really beneficial to the environment that your operation might be putting out?”
    Colleen looked back to show me her lopsided smile and oversized Bambieyes.
    â€œOh, good question, you’d be surprised! For sure there is.” Rob intertwined his fingers again, bounced them against his groin. “Our new Split-Proof line is fifty percent less likely to lose its integrity at curbside, and that keeps waste out of our groundwater.”
    â€œSorry,” said Harv, half-raising his hand, “but fifty percent less likely than what?”
    â€œWell.” Rob nodded earnestly. “Than our popular line.”
    He led us around for another forty-five minutes, explaining what various read-outs meant and introducing us to a dozen different guys who grimaced at us from behind their safety goggles while brandishing aerosol cans of lubricant.
    â€œOh!” Rob clapped his big hands. “I called you Walt ’cause you’re wearing Walt’s coveralls!”
    The substitute valve-tightener rubbed the freckles on his nose and tried to look cheerful. I didn’t have to wear George Reid’s coveralls, true enough, but his name was on my classroom door and his framed photo, for some research citation he’d won, watched me from across the hall—he wore a blue-and-pink checked shirt in the picture, in front of a blue and pink backdrop, so it looked like his bodiless head was just floating there, all forehead and beard. I imagined him hovering behind us like the Great Gazoo on The Flintstones .
    â€œDockside’s travel bin is the only one in the industry that’s TSA approved,” Rob announced. “Hundreds of companies manufacturing travel bins across the country, but ours is the only one that has that, uh, approval, so we think that’s pretty neat.”
    Behind us a set of double doors yawned open to