the smuggler’s bible

Carles

Carles pulls the front door shut behind him and surveys the lawn. Could be salvageable, he thinks, for someone with time, money and inclination. All of these things are, at present, out of his reach.

“Ready?”

“Yeah,” he says, stepping gingerly over one of the scorched holes in the sidewalk. “You think the car roof might hold? Just for a while?”

“Not even a little bit. We’re toast if there’s another storm before we hit the tunnel.”

“That’s what I figured.”

“Sucks, don’t it?”

“Uh huh.” Carles kicks a smoking rock away from a brownish patch of grass. “Big time.”