The Distant Threshold
Act I Carl Blount’s hands were already blackened with the grease of the reclamation yard when he opened the ledger, the heavy spine cracking under his thumbs as he flipped past the inventory of rusted gears and snapped axles to find the blank page where his father’s name would go. He was forty-five, an archivist in a town that smelled of mud and low tide, and the prejudice that he was merely a...
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