the smuggler’s bible


His effects are neatly bundled in a plastic locker. The room is pale green and smells like disinfectant. He pulls on the clothes, the jacket, canvas with broad pouches across the chest and back. His, but not his. Alcide has a sudden thought, maybe a memory, of the sleeve burning. His arm, too.

He throws up in a trash can.

“Those reactions will even out,” the tech says from the door. “We can give you something in the meantime.”

“I’m all right.”


Last is his gun, big and heavy. And this, Alcide thinks, might even be the real thing.