the smuggler’s bible

Darnhull

Darnhull’s fist hits the dashboard and leaves sweat on the faux-leather.

“I dare you to say that again,” he murmurs. “Just see what happens.”

The shuttle’s autopilot dings twice and complies, displaying the route map on the tiny vid-screen. Carson City blinks fat and white like a dove’s egg at the end of the orange-yellow line.

Darnhull cannot take it. He hits the machine twice more in quick succession—this time leaving knuckle impressions amid the plastic buttons.

He swore on his sad life he would never return. But life gets its kicks by making a liar out of Darnhull.