Paul Anderson called himself a nobody, but he was proud of that. He was twenty-three, just married, his wife Sarah was three months pregnant with their first child, he had a good job at Pacific Lumber, and he was really, really good at that job. Oh, and they’d just bought their first house, a little bungalow built in the 1950s. That was enough for him. He’d grown up in Mendocino County and was the son of an “old-time lumberjack.” Everyone congratulated him when he’d gotten a job at PL five years ago, citing PL’s great track record with workers. But it quickly became clear that things had changed—or that the myth was overblown.
He pulled on his flannel shirt this morning, smiling slightly at the loud smell of Bounce fabric softener that Sarah used when she laundered his clothes. It was nic
