The artist has done a good job, because I recognize the bridge from the cut-apart photomontage right away—the rusted iron girders towering above the rocks and the tree-lined banks of the Menominee River. I stop pedaling and sit there for a while, sweating. I can feel something slipping inside of me. The title reads, “At the Train Bridge,” underneath the heading, “The Annals of Crime.” Trouble on a summer’s afternoon at the swimming hole. The story lies glistening in front of me, pasted over with college weight room sweat and the cool words of a New Yorker reporter.