The Pale Fracture
Act I Văn Phuong stood in the mud of the logging camp, the dust of the spring break-up coating his tongue like dry chalk, and he remembered the weight of the ledger he had sold for a pittance three years prior. It was a bad trade, a patent for a water filter that saved no one but himself from the shame of poverty, and now the debt collector, a cousin by marriage, stood by the sawmill gate with...
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