Hans finished waiting by prepping his girl. She was an eighteen wheeler, a “big rig”, with too much dirt and far too many miles. He had heard her dismissed as a “hunk of junk”, but he knew she had it where it counted. Together they had made hundreds of runs from San Francisco to L.A. and even more out of state. The truck had been his dad’s last possession, that and a debt to a crime syndicate who always collected. If you wanted to keep your fingers and toes anyway. Which is what led him to this job.

Fifteen minutes before ten, a group of men hustled a shiny, black coffin and several large crates to the back of the truck. The truck driver waved them on and vaulted up the ramp after they left. Throwing a green sheet over each piece of cargo, he ratchet-strapped everything to a wall to keep it from sliding. He was already counting his commission.

Inside the coffin, Julian settled in for the seven hour trip. One thought kept playing over and over in his head.

“I never thought I’d be smuggling myself.”