Arnold Toivonen was headed to work at 5:06 a.m. Monday morning on a wet highway winding east through the dark pines that came crowding up close to the road from out of the spring fog. Arnold worked at the Caterpillar shop in town, crawling into the iron bellies of enormous Caterpillar tractors, scraping his knuckles on their cold, sharp innards, dropping heavy wrenches on the concrete with that satisfying metallic ring, and wiping his greasy hands on gray cloths while he stood around talking with his foreman, Jack, about what to do next. Sometimes he wondered while he was crawling around in the guts of a machine if one day some dope would fire the thing up and grind him to a grisly pulp. Still, Arnold liked his job. It was steady. It paid well. There was vacation time and insurance, and so…