the smuggler’s bible

Sofie

The ball is up there. Somewhere. Sofie saw the pitch and swing. Solid contact, no doubt. That shit is audible.

But then the speck she’s expected to be guiding into her glove got between her and the sun, where the scorching rays sparkle and outfielder lore posits there exists a fold in reality. Balls which enter here soar wildly astray, momentum and trajectory dissolving into white light. That is to say, this fucker could pop out anywhere.

Time’s up. Sofie’s final, desperate play is to trust in the ancient magnetism of leather. She sighs, holds out her hand and waits.