In Logan, West Virginia the mountains are so high you can only see the sun in the middle of the day. But I never saw the sun in Logan, for it rained the three days I was there. On my last night in Logan the man in the hotel room next to mine went crazy and shot his wife and himself with a chrome-plated .22 pistol. Through the open door I saw it lying in a pool of blood from the woman’s head. That gun was the brightest thing I ever saw in Logan. I went down to a bar to get drunk. I asked the man next to me if God ever came to Logan. “No,” he said sadly. “God died years ago in a mine cave-in and no one mentions Him anymore around here.”