the smuggler’s bible


Sermin gazes out over the desert, one hand shading her eyes, squinting at blurry shadows on the horizon. Static crackles and she leans back into the chopper. The pilot is speaking. Sermin shakes her head, gestures to her headset. Broken, she says, exaggerating the movement of her lips. He shrugs and points south.

They land in a whirling plume of grit, scattering several cardboard palm trees. Sermin hops out and barges into the small hut.

“It’s been three weeks,” she says. “Come home.”

“Because you miss me?” Luisa says, blinking slowly over a mojito.

“Because they think I murdered you.”