The Faded Dust
Act I Oscar DeClouet had been a piano mover for twelve years, which meant his hands knew the weight of silence better than the weight of wood, and he stood now in the center of the warehouse, holding a pay stub with a garnishment line that cut across the bottom like a scar. The air in the building smelled of old varnish and the damp, rotting mud of the thaw, a physical fact that seeped through...
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