the smuggler’s bible

Rumble

He freezes and waits, holding his breath. The stillness is excruciating. Paranoia flares and expands—recursive. Anyone listening knows by his silence that he knows they are listening, knows that he knows that they know. On and on.

He tries to focus on the clock hanging on the wall. The second hand ticks forward, then backward, then forward again. Rumble begins to sweat. He almost screams at the chirp—not even a sound, really, just a vibration against his inner ear. Text scrolls low in his field of vision.

“Keep it together. Blow it now and there’s no way back.”