the smuggler’s bible

The observer is changed by the act of observing

Yes, that’s him. Note the button on his lapel. Note the roses. White and red, three of each. His grip is much too tight. The stems will break.

In his other hand—he holds it gentle as an egg—is the envelope, thick with coded memoranda, unmarked bills, documents that will see you across the border.

From the bench he sees the crowd. From the crowd you see him set the crumpled flowers down and check his watch.

Pass the time. Just wait and see. If nobody has broken faith, if his nerve holds, the rest becomes so, so simple.