From the Eastside Shoreham Newsletter I learn the name Louise. Louise works for Canadian Pacific. I call, leave a vague message, and am surprised when she calls me back. We talk for a while, I ask my questions. I tell her I want to see it. “What it?” “The roundhouse,” I say. “It was demolished earlier this summer,” she tells me. “Even if it was still standing, you couldn’t see it. This is an active worksite.” I am nodding my head in agreement, though Louise cannot see this. I know about active worksites; I want Louise to know I know. “We don’t just let people onto the railyards. You can’t come in here unless you have business,” Louise says. Do I have business? I breathe the railyard; I eat it in the tomatoes I grow out back. I tell her quite impotently that I receive the Eastside Shoreham Newsletter. I am a regular reader of it. That I didn’t know about any of this until I moved into the neighborhood, just two blocks away from the roundhouse. I tell Louise my address. Her voice shifts. A wall is erected. She says, “People know about the pollution here, the public has been informed.” I concur. I do feel more informed, daily. She tells me there used to be community meetings on the cleanup status, but attendance dwindled so the company stopped hosting them. Then she tells me I am safe. My tap water is safe. My yard is safe. They have been remediating volatile organic compounds since the nineteen eighties. I am so safe. I like the way Louise says the word. She sounds authoritative and maternal. I want to keep her on the phone. I want her to keep telling me.