the smuggler’s bible


Mareschal gets separated from the group and spends a quiet fifteen minutes standing under the awning of a merch tent , peering through the rain. A couple guitar riffs float over from one of the side stages, but the sound gets pounded into the mud with the trash and empty bottles. He sees lighters flare in the parking lot, followed by dozens of glittering lights from burning cigarettes.

“Those assholes are going to catch pneumonia,” Mareschal says to himself. But he keeps watching.

Later, Windsor finds him.

“Man, you missed the show.”

Mareschal sighs, wishing now that he smoked too.