Dust. Combustible dust, actually. Suspended in air during routine maintenance and ignited by an unknown source. Then an explosion,
(deep and heavy, you feel it in your heart, and think of the white circles on the Fourth of July)
which kicks up more dust, which, when lit by the flames that follow the first blast, triggers a cascade of blasts,
(it takes your breath at first, then you inhale and hold it, waiting for the next - close your eyes, here it comes)
demolishing the silos. And they dump tons of corn through the concrete floors, filling the underground tunnels, where workers were scrubbing the walls and floors.
Everywhere in town, there was a fine dusting of white powder. It blanketed every surface for a quarter mile - the lot around the elevator, the roads back into town, the walls of nearby buildings and houses, trains, cars, trees, lawns. Anchoring thin plumes of gray smoke, the fires smoldered for weeks. And it seemed like the explosions echoed across the fields for just as long.
And Paul was gone. Just gone.
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