the smuggler’s bible


Malo’s New Year’s resolution glows like a pillar of white flame, transforming the midmorning clouds into a hazy Gaussian blur over the horizon.

“A beacon,” he says.

Sawney sets the syrup aside and pauses, fork raised over her pancakes. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“A lighthouse or something. Like, to keep me from sailing onto the reefs. Which are dark thoughts.” Malo shades his eyes to get a better look. “Or maybe they’re the water?”

“Okay, your metaphor needs a little more focused attention,” Sawney says. “Also, it’s been like three days. How are you still so drunk?”