the smuggler’s bible

Quispe

The new year is in sight, dispersing a calm, even glow across the fresh snowfall. It is clean and unmarred. Yeah, Quispe thinks, I sure could use some of that.

Okay. Simple. Just make the leap. But the gap is wider than it looks. She backs up, eyeballs the jump, backs up a little more.

“Hail Mary!” Quispe shouts, sprinting and lunging. She hangs over the dark ravine, pinwheeling her arms like a goddamn cartoon character before she lands, full of grace, clutching at the precipice to arrest her backslide. “Gotcha,” she says to the new year through gritted teeth.