the smuggler’s bible


Tuvalo sits quietly on the bench and flips through the magazine. It is not as easy as it sounds. He pulled it out of a puddle after (and this part, he freely admits, is pure speculation) at least one dog, but possibly more, had tried to eat it.

He lays it aside and sighs.

“How are the articles?”

Tuvalo stares straight ahead. “Silty,” he says. “Crumpled. Punctured.”

“Smeared also, I think. Why bother?”

“Because,” Tuvalo says, knocking the magazine onto the ground and brushing the bench seat clean. “I had considered eating the staples in protest if you canceled again.”