the smuggler’s bible

Hiro

Red, wet night seeps in through the door to the hotel balcony. Out in the courtyard, somebody is yelling about the ice machine, and the sounds of cable TV float over the racket.

“My god, the anguish,” Hiro says.

“It’s not so bad, really. They’re just people.”

Hiro shrugs and grabs another Bud Light out of the cooler and pops the tab, then kneels to get a better look at the diagram spread out on the floor. It’s like a police chalk outline, except it’s made of ash and there’s plenty of fine detail around the face.

“Brutal,” he says.