the smuggler’s bible

Turkey Tom

He finds a place at the end of the line. It’s dull and grey, but nobody asks any questions about another dingy bird who couldn’t hack it in the real word. He settles in, lets himself believe—for a while at least—that this is what he’s been looking for.

Then one night the snow blows in hard and heavy through a bitter fog. He lies petrified under his thin blanket and listens to booted feet tramping on his roof. A voice booms down the chimney.

“Come along, Tom. The time draws near, and I have need of my herald.”