the smuggler’s bible

Edgar Barton

The house looks a little better than he expected. It’s full night and the only streetlight is flickering sadly across the way, three houses down, but isn’t there still a roof? Aren’t there still glass windows, goddamnit?

Other things turn out to be exactly how he figured. The screen door rasps and bangs against the wall. Hinges scream in the quiet. Nobody answers him when he shouts. A couple of floorboards are pried up, and the cash box is open on the little card table in the kitchen.

He knows it’s empty, checks anyway. She didn’t even leave a note.