the smuggler’s bible

Brielle

It’s a trick, obviously. In fact, an extremely simple variety common in the fraudulent mail-order brochures purporting to teach any parlor rube to play like a master.

Brielle reaches for one of her pieces, then pauses. What if it isn’t a trick? Or, more accurately, what if the trick is to appear simply deceptive while the true, complicated gambit unfolds simultaneously. She withdraws her hand.

Her father died at the board from dehydration when she was eight. He’d been sitting there for a week, trying to pry apart a barbed knot of potential hazard.

But he didn’t die a loser.