the smuggler’s bible

Ronald the Whitebeard

Ronald the Whitebeard pulls on his boots and stomps into the forest. If there’s ever gonna be a cabin—and he certainly intends that there will be—he needs the proper trees. And by god he means to find them himself.

The first couple are easy. Tall, straight and growing close together. He brings the brothers down hard, and the cloud of dust they kick up when they hit the ground spreads out fast and low, swirling around Ronald’s ankles and among the trunks of all the other trees, sparkling golden in the sunlight.

It’s beautiful, he thinks. Truly beautiful.