the smuggler’s bible

Vikander

Vikander find a seat in the waiting room and pulls out his phone. He watches the last sliver of battery blink and vanish. Desperately, he tries to play it cool by swiping around a little bit anyway.

It’s too late. A floorboard hums like a plucked string, and the receptionist smiles. “There are magazines,” she says. “Help yourself.”

Vikander sighs and grabs something off the stack—a Southern Living from 2003.

“So, uh, is this gonna take a while or … ?”

“Not long now,” the receptionist laughs softly through her fangs, settling in to wait for her fly to stop struggling.