This morphed into my second thought, the truth about my phone call. And the text about Vera. I was as empty of answers as I had been last night, but not for long. I knew where to find them.

I got out of bed and peeked between the blinds. Two stories below, Cody tramped back and forth across the yard, shirtless and glistening, earbuds pumping old-school Eminem into his brain. I could tell by the lyrics he rapped. Or at least tried to rap.

Neatly cut rows trailed him as he pushed the mower through the tall grass. If I hurried, I could make it there and back before he finished the backyard and still have time to serve breakfast and an apology.

With heavy Pittsburgh traffic, it took over half an hour winding through the rolling, twisty hills that made driving in this city a nightmare when I finally pulled into the driveway of the Grandview Avenue house atop Mount Washington. I barely appreciated the view that lured tourists to this spot, paying five bucks a head to ride the oldest and steepest incline in the United States up the sharp mountain for a sweeping panorama of the Steel City.

Across the street from the house, and miles below, mid-morning sun warmed the city alive. The sparkling landmark skyscrapers of the Golden Triangle sat nestled at the point where the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers met to create the mighty Ohio, where fifteen bridges crisscrossed the scene like yellow spokes.

Although the beauty of the sights escaped my accustomed eyes, the history had always fascinated me. From childhood Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood was a hometown favorite, and the 1983 flick Flashdance, following the trials and tribulations of aspiring ballerina Jennifer Beals, was a guilty pleasure. Steelworker by day, exotic dancer by night—really? The movie was so corny it was cool, but the music was electrifying, and who could forget that iconic scene where Beals’ underdog character, Alex, gets doused with a bucket of water and beats the living daylights out of an innocent chair? Too funny. (Knowing that Beals had an African-American father and an Irish-American mother always stoked me too.)

Pop culture touchstones aside, the firetruck red incline making its ascent before me was a rightful bragging point. Once upon a time these machines carried passengers and freight between the coal mines, local neighborhoods, and rail yard. Even in our high-tech world of drones and 3D printers and augmented reality, it knocked me out that 1870s ingenuity had created this mechanical marvel.

I parked and walked up the mildew-gray brick walkway that had at one point matched the yellow brick house. I gripped the railing as I mounted the porch steps, feeling a dusting of orange rust clinging to my palm. The porch was swept clean, with only a rectangle of discolored concrete where the welcome mat should have been.