the smuggler’s bible


The season wins in the end. Mirele has fallen off the wagon and landed in the wide lap of a jolly and rubicund addiction dressed in red velvet. Her shirt collar is dusted with peppermint flakes. She can’t function without two (whole ass) advent calendars a day. Sometimes it takes more.

“Good cheer,” she says, holding out her snowman mug on the street corner. It overflows with roasted chestnuts. “Good cheer.”

But the man in front of her is on the phone and doesn’t hear. Or—even worse, Mirele tells the officer later in county lockup—he is a scrooge.