The Faded Alibi
Act I Pierre Thibault’s hands were already caked in the wet, grey silt of the estuary as he hauled the last of the wading birds into the tin box, the metal groaning under the weight of the day’s failed catch. The ferry engines droned at slack water, a low, rhythmic thrum that vibrated through the soles of his boots and settled in his teeth, a sound that had replaced the silence of the mine...
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