the smuggler’s bible

Salme

They dig the foundations for the first post deep and cement it in tight. Any bush-league outfit that tolerates a wobble in the first post can be credibly suspected of more heinous transgressions.

Still, they ought to have measured.

“Wait. How wide is this thing supposed to be?” Salme says, flipping the schematics around frantically.

One of her foremen gestures vaguely. “Generally, uhm, thus. I think.”

“Okay, but I’m not sure that’s reflected in this documentation.”

“We could dig the post up. Scooch it over a ways and—”

“No,” Salme says, face pale. “I see now. Generally thus. Of course.”