The Faded Alibi
The humidity in the desalination plant does not merely exist; it negotiates. It swells the wooden frames of the intake valves until they stick, it warps the carbon copies in the typing pool until the ink smears into illegible blurs, and it seeps into the drywall of the municipal office until the plaster breathes a damp, fungal sigh that smells of wet earth and old paper. I am Shinji Saito, the...
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