the smuggler’s bible


When he arrives, it’s clear the shack has been trying very hard for several years to collapse over the side of the hill. Lewi frowns and steps up onto the porch.

“Sorry for interrupting,” he says. “I won’t be long.”

The door gives up on his second push and falls off its hinges. Everything is just as he remembers from the day he left. And in the bedroom—tacked up neatly and gleaming like new, proof against the corruption—the poster of Miss February 1987.

“Sweetheart,” Lewi whispers, “didn’t I say I’d be back? Nobody forgets a babe like you.”