A guttural roar ripped through the air, and a cloud of dust billowed down the dry track leading to the Rusk farm. The sound wasn't the familiar rumble of Harlan’s truck, but the heavy, synchronized thud of boots on packed earth, punctuated by the jingle of metal and the low growl of men. Sela felt the vibration through Harlan’s flannel shirt. The town squad had arrived. Harlan stood rigid, shoulders locked. Pip burrowed her face deeper into Sela’s skirt, tiny fingers twisting into the coarse cotton. “The flatbed,” Sela whispered. “The chicory beans. The refined sugar. They’ll see it all.” Matriarch Ona, a venomous smile spreading across her face, stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction. “Well, well, Harlan Rusk,” she sneered, her voice carrying across the yard, “Looks like your luck has finally run out. Took them long enough to catch a common black marketeer.” Vance, his face still mottled with humiliation, smirked. “Justice comes for us all, Rusk. Especially for those who defy the law. And those who defy me.” The patrol leader, a burly man with a walrus mustache, led the charge. Six uniformed militia fanned out, encircling the flatbed. He leveled an iron baton toward Harlan. “Harlan Rusk! We received intelligence regarding contraband concealed within your vehicle! Step clear!” Harlan shifted, his stance widening, as if to shield Sela and Pip from the very air. “There’s nothing inside, Inspector,” Harlan said, gravel-voiced and steady. “Just honest freight.” “We decide that,” the officer snapped, gesturing backward. Two troopers moved to the tailgate, reaching for the iron hasps. There was no time to unload. Sela closed her eyes, seeking the sliding glass entrance buried behind her thoughts. Could she reverse the flow—pushing freight inward? She closed her eyes for a fleeting second, focusing with every fiber of her being. Fluorescent brilliance flared behind her eyelids. The automatic glass barrier resisted, groaning under reverse strain. She pictured the wooden crates, burlap sacks, textiles, and wrapped tobacco shunted wholesale across the linoleum entryway. Pain spiked behind her temples. The air thinned, the cargo bed emptying in an instantaneous vacuum until a dry snap echoed behind her brows. “Unlatch it!” the officer barked. Before the latch gave, a small creature bounded off the porch railing. Pidge landed squarely on the officer’s peaked cap, a greasy link of pork links whipping across his nose. The officer yelped, slapping at his head. Pidge dug claws into the cap band, tearing furiously at the butcher twine, grease smearing across the man's eyebrows. The troopers balked, several muffling snorts behind leather gloves. Pip pressed her face into Sela’s apron, stifling a bright laugh. Snapping a single link free, Pidge dropped, darting between the men's boots. “Snare the beast!” the leader sputtered, wiping animal fat from his mustache. The squad broke ranks, stumbling after the flash of brown fur. “Leave it!” the officer shouted, giving up by the horse trough as Pidge ducked under a rotted timber. “Open the bed!” Two men grabbed the iron handles. The latch pins clattered free, and the heavy pine doors creaked back. The commander marched up, leaning his chest against the drop-tail. He squinted into the gloom. The men leaned beside him, scraping their boots in silence. “Where is it?” he muttered, the commanding bark gone flat. “There’s nothing.” Empty. Not a single crate. Not a single sack. The truck was bare, save for a thin layer of dust and a faint, lingering scent of something sweet. Ona’s triumphant grin faltered, then contorted into a mask of pure disbelief and rage. “Empty? That’s impossible! I saw… I know…!” Her voice rose to a screech. Vance’s face, which had been slowly reforming its smug expression, crumbled, leaving him looking like a petulant child denied a toy. The officer scraped a thumb across his cap visor. “Nothing here, Rusk. No untaxed grain. No contraband.” He turned toward the yard. “Fall in! Mount up!” The troopers formed ranks and marched down the gravel lane. Ona stood with her mouth gaping, purple blotches mottled across her cheeks. Vance stumbled into his trap carriage without a word, slamming the cab door shut. When the footsteps faded down the track, Sela's knees loosened. Harlan stepped close, rough thumb tracing her cheekbone. “Clever, little wife,” he murmured, a hint of a smile touching his lips. “Very clever.” “We have to bring it back,” Sela whispered, steadying her breath. “The chicory. The sugar crates. For the town market tomorrow.” Harlan nodded, walking to the tailgate. Sela reached inward toward the store entrance. She pictured the crates resting near the checkout lanes, reaching out to haul them onto the truck planks. Nothing shifted. The boundary had set like cured cement. The neon-bright aisles stayed sealed. What went across the threshold refused to come back through.

Sausages and Sleight of Hand