Pam Kline welcomed me through the front door of her home in East Palestine, Ohio, on a wet afternoon when we did not know if it was safe to be in the rain. About a week prior to our meeting, a train derailed in this small slice of the heartland, releasing toxic chemicals into the soil and sky. The house is a well-kept American Foursquare with an enclosed porch filled by the leathery smell of tobacco. She apologized for the odor as I entered the living room where her husband, Lenny, and a friend...
