Heat 2

by Michael Mann

Ruby-encrusted nipple clamps. Chris holds them up. “Some people got way too much money.”

She’s a seventh-generation smuggler. What does she know about getting across the line?

Whatever time you get is luck.

So he doesn’t. He folds his fears neatly, like a sheet of origami paper, and slides them into a slot at the back of his mind. He focuses.

She hesitates. Decides the silence is not good enough. “I’m sorry, Tío,” she says. “I hope it doesn’t hurt anymore.” Taking a breath, she crouches and closes his eyes. She whispers, “Thank you.” She slips out the back door.

Footprints on a beach. The tide comes through and you were never there.

“Neil.” She whispers it. Her lips have a blue cast. A shadow rides behind her eyes. “We have this time. Let me tell you. I am happy. You make me happy. You give joy to my days. My mornings. My nights. My mind. My heart. My body. Every second has been worth it.”

“Let justice roll down like waters. And righteousness as a fucking steamroller.”