the smuggler’s bible

Fiona

Fiona wakes up under a sheet of canvas stiff with frost. It crunches as she rolls it away and sits up. The cat is gone—a warm spot at her side, fading in the wind.

“We need a car. This is embarrassing.” She stretches and walks to the pile of brushwood she used to camouflage the bike, digs around for her duffel. “Motorcycles are for factions anyway.”

Breakfast comes out of a plastic carton and tastes faintly of motor oil.

“There must be something left in this city,” Fiona says, chewing, “with four wheels and a little bit of rumble.”