Dad was about to ask what the hell we were doing in the shed, but instead he crinkled his nose, took whiff and knew.

“Jesus Christ, Kimberly. Not this shit again,” he said.

I closed my eyes and steeled myself against his coming tirade. But he never even started. When I opened them, he was walking across the lawn, shaking his head and muttering to himself. I looked at Bill, who still had the crooked hash joint hanging from his lip. He shrugged.

Pulling my shirt back on, I stepped out of the smoky shed and into the late afternoon.

Cannibalized from this.


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