the smuggler’s bible


Lorant scrambles across the grass, shaving some distance by hurdling the Rhododendrons—not a tournament legal maneuver, but this is the amateur circuit, baby. No ref, no sweat. He can hear the rest of the pack behind him, just beginning to yelp and shout as they skid through the sprinkler.

He’s absolutely free and clear. The way ahead opens before him. All that is required is that he stride the golden path.

Lorant has eaten a lot of grit in his day, anyone serious about yard race has, but now he floats above it, weightless and serene. A shining god.