the smuggler’s bible


The phone vibrates somewhere in the vicinity of Akoni’s person. A familiar chill drips down his spine—panic. Pockets, empty. Jacket, empty. The bag? His fingers tremble upon the zipper. Empty. He roars and hurls it across the room.

There, again! The rattling buzz! So close that there was (perhaps) a whisper of physical sensation. The floor is too heavily carpeted. The table, then. It must be.

Akoni flips the lid of a takeout container, and the world glows white as a wall of dopamine crashes into his brain. The air is cool and sweet at the summit of Olympus.