the smuggler’s bible

Simo

Simo leans against the rail and looks out the window at the traffic. It is frozen—completely motionless—in two lines of smeared white and red stretching into the distance.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” a man says beside him. “Spiritually, I mean.”

“It looks like it goes on forever.”

“Well, near enough. Watch it, kid.”

There is a sharp pain between Simo’s fingers. He looks down. Just his cigarette. He’d forgotten he was holding one.

“Where you headed? Some places are easier than others.”

“I’m going to Tulsa.”

“Oh,” the man says, frowning. “No, I don’t figure you’ll make Tulsa.”