Richard Jones set his pencil down, took off his reading glasses, threw his arms up in the air, and then slouched into his chair. The medical bills for Charlotte put him a thousand dollars over budget for the month, and he'd maxed out his last credit card paying for gas and groceries. He'd have to start selling the family silver. Early morning dawn rolled in through the kitchen windows. It was morning in America. Vincent coughed violently into his sleeve. Blood had started coming up the previous day. Goodwill had run out of coats to give, and he was stuck using newspaper for insulation. Gazing, eyes glazed, he saw the sun break out from behind the smokestacks of the coal factory. It was morning in America. The Carth family sat around the dining room table, heads in their hands. Martha, the mother, sobbed softly. Lyle, a stout man of fifty-four, stared intently at the floor listlessly. In the middle of the table stood a flag, folded in a triangle. The stars glistened in the early-morning glint of dawn. It was morning in America.