the smuggler’s bible

Deirdre

Sure, the forecast called for rain, but on the other hand, Deirdre doesn’t have time to keep track of this stuff. Whoever says they do is a liar.

Later, when optimism and then the hotel lobby newspaper cease in quick succession to hold the rain off, she ducks into the first door she comes to. It’s big and bangs heavily against the wall. Row after row of faces turn and glare from the pews. Everyone is wearing black.

“Shit,” Deirdre says and flicks her cigarette back outside. “Now it seems like I’m the asshole if I complain about my luck.”