The production floor held an eerie, quasi-convalescent atmosphere of gloom. Outside, the cold sky pissed greyly in the feeble dawn. It was February in Indiana in an injection molding plant where apparently everyone was poor, poorly educated, and addicted to some variety of "Basic" brand cigarettes. My head and eyes those early mornings felt like 9 day old prison baked goods tossed out into the yard by some sad-eyed lady of the American lowlands. The plant was full of them.