the smuggler’s bible

Mister Mothman

Everything seems silver in the moonlight. A door opens across the street and a man steps out onto the stoop. He looks around carefully, peering at the cars parked along the street. He shrugs and descends the stairs, turning north toward the city center.

He never looks up. It is very rare that any do.

The man adjusts his coat. Tens of thousands of photoreceptors drink in the motion, sharpen and magnify it, revealing an envelope in his breast pocket.

Plenty of night to spare, Mister Mothman thinks, diving into a glide. As long as he doesn’t take a train.