the smuggler’s bible

Barrfind

Barrfind flips over a log in the forest and watches the beetles scurry and dig. They burrow until their shells glisten like black eyes in the dirt. He understands their need to bury themselves, knows the things that drive a creature to do it—shock and fear. Survival.

The ground is softest by the lake. His shovel bites in and after fifteen minutes he has a shallow pit six feet long. He leaves his clothes folded in a pile and lies down, scooping the earth over himself.

“Safe now,” Barrfind whispers turning in the warm loam. And maybe he’s right.