the smuggler’s bible


Sonja swore over the bones of her Thanksgiving turkey that his Christmas cards would be in the mail with plenty of time to be delivered before the holiday—a sacred oath. That’s why she breaks into a cold sweat when she sees the look on the post office clerk’s face.

“Honey, we can get them there the first week of January,” she says, unable even to muster pity for the lowly creature before her. “Or maybe the next week.”

“Could I, like, buy double stamps or something?”

The clerk doesn’t reply to that, which is honestly more than it deserves.