A cry like the rebel yell rose from the back, and it was more than just Marty and Monty singing along.  Someone pushed a joint to my mouth.  My lips press around it, a baby suckling a pacifier.  I went to hand the joint to Helen. She curled her nose at it. I mouthed the words: “But it’s 4:20.” Perhaps for old-time sakes she accepted the joint and took a hit.

“I guess I’m on vacation,” she said as she exhaled.

We were still ten miles from Mad Hatters.  I’d failed but no one seemed to care.


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