The Pale Door
Act I Eugene Yancey drove the chisel into the pale, rotting door, the steel biting deep into the grain as if cutting through wet clay. The courtyard of the abandoned mill was slick with rain, the cypress knees of the inland empire rising from the mud like the joints of drowned giants. He was forty-two, a master carpenter in a ship society that ran on oxygen subscriptions and recycled paper, and...
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