The Distant Threshold
Act I What does a man owe a ghost, and can a clerk settle that debt with mortar? Grigori Bogdanov stood in the doorway of his sister’s house, the one in the hobo jungle near the rails, where the quarry lake held its unnaturally blue light like a bruise under the skin of the summer. He was thirty-four, a clerk in the pie factory line where the steam rose in thick, white plumes, and he held a...
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