the smuggler’s bible

Reva

Reva shades her eyes and gazes across the parking lot. Cars stretch for miles into the hazy distance.

“Can you see it?” Lucho asks, tugging on her sleeve. “It’s there, right?”

“No,” she says. “It isn’t there. We should go back to Section K, try the eastern route.”

“But you said the water wouldn’t last.”

“It wont.” Reva hands over their dented fuji bottle, one precious swallow swirling inside. “Here.”

As Lucho cradles the warm plastic, his hand slips open, dropping a grimy fob. In the distance—the echo of an echo—they hear the sharp blast of a horn.