the smuggler’s bible


It’s raining on the third day of Samuel’s observations. Which means, he hopes, that the subject will be inclined to remain within convenient monitoring range.

“Stay put, you son of a bitch,” he says, peering through the eyepiece of his telescope. He’s far back in the upstairs bedroom, no chance of light catching the lense, but this introduces the hurdle of a reduced viewing angle. When the target finishes breakfast, Samuel will probably have to move to the attic.

He jots some notes. “Corn flakes—unfrosted. You demented creature,” he says, then chuckles. “Just wait until I tell the government.”