One autumn evening, a telegram arrived from the main office in Rochester. The message was terse: “Find a use for the waste. Acetone, if possible. War is coming.”
In 2026, a global crisis hits: mountains of discarded mattresses and colored plastic bottles. No one can recycle the dye out of the PET.
“Cellulose acetate,” he whispered.
Leo pulls out a faded photograph—Henry at his lab bench in 1930, grinning beside a jar of clear liquid.
He dipped a rod into it. It evaporated cleanly. eastman chemical company
So Henry stayed. He became a lab assistant.
“They call us a ‘chemical company,’” said a young executive named Margaret, clipboard in hand. “But we’re really a problem-solving factory. A car breaks? We make the windshield interlayer. A soda goes flat? We make the bottle’s barrier resin.” One autumn evening, a telegram arrived from the
They vote yes.