the smuggler’s bible


The drawer on the mailbox slams shut and Doonan is seized by the suspicion that she has made a mistake. A big one. The kind that plunges through the center of a woman’s life and creates ripples that swirl out to the walls at the edge of existence and rebound to where she’s floating helplessly, washing over her again and again in mile-high waves of fucked up emotional anguish.

She raises a hand, hesitates, then turns to go.

Next week I’m starting therapy, she promises herself that night, crouched in the snow, flicking the igniter on a rented acetylene torch.