the smuggler’s bible

Wemba

The closet is pretty deep actually, Wemba realizes, kicking boxes aside. He shifts an armload of coats and reveals a shelf at the very back. Tiny gears spin in the gloom. Plastic joints creak. Eyes open and meet Wemba’s across a space of eight inches.

“Oh my god,” Wemba says. “My old, uh, flurble. Farmple? Wait, I know this.”

“Light!” the toy wheezes. “Gone so long I had begun to think it the memory of a dream! It does a poor flabber good to see it, one last time.”

“Flabber, that’s it,” Wemba says. “Hey, man, you worth anything online?”