the smuggler’s bible


“Ahhh, island time,” Zikomo says, leaning back in his hammock and sipping from his very cold and very strong coconut drink. There is a twitch at his wrist and his watch unclasps itself, tumbling into the sand. A tiny red crab snags it and disappears into a hole.

“Oh, shit.”

Zikomo tumbles out of the hammock and lunges for his cellphone. He flinches at a pelican’s shriek and the rushing of wings, and the device disappears. Zikomo watches the bird vanish into the glare of the motionless sun.

Island time, the wind and waves sigh gently again and again. Ahhhhhhhhhh.