the smuggler’s bible

Orson

The kid in the drive-through hands over a bag and a cardboard tray full of drinks.

“No charge,” the kid says.

“And what do you mean by that?”

The kid points up the street. Orson gets just a glimpse of tail lights vanishing around the corner.

“Dude gave me cash and told me to pay it forward.”

Orson drops his heel onto the clutch. He’s in third gear when he makes the intersection and drifts through it sidways.

“Gonna need a bigger lead than that,” Orson mutters, absolutely smoking a red light, “to buy my lunch without a thank you.”