The Faded Alibi
The ferry queue stretched out into the grey, a snake of wet umbrellas and damp coats, and Busaba Sangkharat’s hands were busy, checking the manifest against the list of cargo. The rain was not falling so much as it was existing, a physical weight that pressed the moss from the riverbank into the pavement. She was thirty-two, a dispatcher for the long-haul trucks that carried industrial goods...
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