the smuggler’s bible

Darby

Darby spends the morning of the day the moon’s light flipped inside out and became a dark spot in the daytime sky in the supply closet at work, gasping and struggling desperately to muster the flimsy tatters of courage floating around in his guts.

“I think that’s it,” he says. “Now I go for it and maybe die of shame.”

Asher is on break, smoking in the parking lot.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“What’s up?”

“So, uh, I was wondering if this weekend—”

Darby is interrupted by a very loud pop.

“Holy shit,” Asher says, pointing upward. “What the fuck is that?”