the smuggler’s bible

Paul Newman

The calendar above the mantle is missing a day—wallpaper shows through the ragged hole.

Paul Newman smells something burning, hears the echo of a crash. He pulls open the door to the hall and sees himself exiting at the far end. The other him hesitates and turns back. “Don’t believe his goddamned lies,” he says, pale-faced. A drop of blood slides down his cheek. “Time is a river, and it’s deepest in the middle.”

There is a sharp pain and something damp on Paul Newman’s face. A door opens behind him. He wheels around ready to spread the gospel.