the smuggler’s bible

Hestia

Hestia layers the bottom of her suitcase with corduroy pants, lays down two large bottles of rum swaddled in a T-shirt, then fills the rest with sweaters. Big ones. Soft ones.

“It’s just the holidays,” Nora says. “You don’t have to pack all of your armor.”

“You’re wrong. It’s a gauntlet.”

“So there’s some bad blood. Big deal.” Nora slides her own bag over a shoulder and heads for the door. “Family is family.”

“The trouble with bad blood,” Hestia says, knuckles white as she drags a furrow across the carpet, “is that trouble doesn’t get any deeper than that.”