In the early modern era, news traveled fast, fake news traveled faster, and everyone desperately wanted to hear about the most recent deadly disasters. Book and print collectors relived these incidents safely in their own homes through interactive mapping of an unforgiving and unpredictable landscape that could change in the blink of an eye (“in einem Augenblick”). A group of prints with liftable flaps showing the rockslide that destroyed the Graubunden mining district of Plurs (or Piuro) on September 4, 1618 offered several distinct advantages over paintings and other prints of the disaster (Figs. 10.1–3, 10.8–12, 10.18). First was their speed. Quick to produce, and illustrated with hastily sketched etchings, they alternated even more swiftly between the landscape's normal state of being and its annihilation than a static or even a panoramic image. Reenacting the cataclysm itself, the flaps in the viewer's hands could instantly replicate the shock of the mountain's unexpected crash. Second was the physical interaction with the sheet. It required touching as well as looking and reading, creating a physical and visual correspondence as an empathetic response to the actual event. This materiality and physical closeness first made the viewer complicit, reinforcing the insinuations of biblical verses that permeated the printed record, and then made the viewer powerful (Figs. 10.2–3). For who but a god could swoop in from above, and with the touch of their fingers undo the devastation of an entire town? Who but a god could bring the hammer of their wrath crashing down when they lowered the flap once again?