the smuggler’s bible

Whitney

Whitney clenches her ticket in a fist as she cranes her neck to stare at the screens glowing on the wall. She tries to keep track of the numbers, but they’re scrolling by so fast. The displays are windows looking out onto a blizzard. She can sense the chill seeping in under the door.

It’s got to get better, she thinks. Certainly that’s what the chaos means, the way that frigid mass swirls madly and then piles into insane shimmering patterns.

But, of course, that’s how everybody feels just before the roof caves in under the weight of the snow.