the smuggler’s bible

Hiro

The woman leaves her book balanced on the edge of the coffee table and goes to the window. It’s raining outside. She watches small puddles form on the sidewalk, grow and bleed together, consuming one another. There’s a dark figure waiting under the tree in the yard.

“Is he there?”

She nods. “Only when it rains.”

“And the same place?”

“Always. But he hasn’t done any harm.”

“No, and he might never,” Hiro says. His sword is leaning against the couch, and he picks it up on his way to the door. “Unless, of course, it really starts to storm.”