the smuggler’s bible

Tzila

Tzila wakes up to find that the clock’s batteries have died. The hands say four nineteen, but (the outage being what it is) it’s hard to say how long ago that was.

So she yanks the guts out and uses the scuffed blue plastic chassis as a dish for some stale cheerios she scavenged in the city. No milk. That stuff just don’t stay potable.

“We have bowls.”

“But this is way more, like, Mad Max. You know, Road Warrior. Lord Humungus.” Tzila grimaces and swallows dry cereal. “Australia or whatever.”

“No, I get it. I just don’t like it.”