the smuggler’s bible

Harris

He dims the lights and checks the camera one last time. The kitchen glows pale green under the night vision filter.

“It’s eerie.”

“I know,” Harris says, baiting a hook with a strip of beef jerky and spooling the line carefully into a hole drilled into the wall beside the microwave. “It seems peaceful, but underneath—hidden, invisible—chaos.”

“Okay, but actually I meant the sight of my husband becoming utterly obsessed with leprechauns.”

“They’re borrowers. And they stole my keys.”

“Your keys were in the couch.”

“Do you fall for every psy-op,” Harris snaps, “or just the obvious ones?”