the smuggler’s bible

Lowen

The house is dark, but that’s how it ought to be. Lowen rolls down the window and lets the thick night air tumble in. He can smell them, knows they’re watching.

He gets out of the car and heads up the sidewalk. There are gaps in the concrete where weeds and green mosses thrive. Lowen lights a cigarette and rubs the match into the dirt with his heel. He waits.

Up overhead a plane crosses the sky, blinking. Too far for him to hear—it is remote. Untouchable.

“Well, I guess you’d better come in,” Malkin says from the doorway.