The effect of the pills faded as he'd started to fall asleep. The pain grew until he couldn't bare it. He stood up and opened his backpack. They'd planned to smoke the remaining joint on Sunday but he couldn't think of a better alternative. He took it out from the ziplock bag it'd been stored in. He went to his closet and took out a glass pipe, a box of matches, and a bottle of water.

Clint sneaked past Meg, who'd fallen asleep on the couch (watching late night soap operas), and went out in to the yard.

He sat on the same chair's Lina and him had sat on earlier.

In the pale moonlight, he unrolled the tip of the joint. He held it between his forefinger and thumb, flipped it upside down (with the tip resting on the bowl), and rolled it.

The loose weed fell out in sporadic bursts. Some fell on the table. With a bit of effort, he scooped it up with his left hand and put it in the bowl. He stopped once it was half full.

He set the joint down and picked up the matchbox. He struck it and it lit. He set the matchbox down and picked up the pipe.

He brought the pipe up to his lips. The flame danced around the sides of the glass bowl as he took in the hit. He started coughing immediately. The smoke that escaped his lungs was murky yellow. He grabbed the water bottle and took a large drink. He tried swirling it around but the urge to cough was too large and he spat it out.

He couldn't get the rotten, coppery, taste out. Most of the bowl was unlit. He grabbed his phone and turned the flashlight on.

The weed was red.

He touched it. It was moist. He looked down at his hand. The bandage was hanging off. A gash that ran across his palm was bleeding.

He heard a rustling in the woods. He looked up, the glow of the moon didn't reveal anything. He ignored the rustling and went back to his hand. He grabbed the water bottle, tilted it, and let the water slowly trickle down the wound. There were nuggets of weed inside the gash. He placed the phone at the edge of the coffee table and turned on the light. He heard more rustling coming from the edge of the forest. He ignored it and slowly started picking them out.

Once it looked clean he rewrapped the bandage around his palm. He grabbed the joint and started to roll weed on to the bowl again. This time he checked it. There was no blood. But, there were a few loose strands of fur in it. He looked at the sleeve of his hoodie and saw that whatever he'd struck had likely been shedding. He pinched it with his fingers and threw it out in to the wind.

His eyes reflected the golden glow of the burning match-head. He finished the bowl in one hit.

He stood up. The rustling grew louder. He quickly picked his phone up and shone the light at the forest. The shadows of the wire backyard fence spread across the tree trunks. He moved the light around. The rustling was gone. He turned the light off and took a few steps towards the entrance.

This time it was closer, far closer. It sounded as if it was at the edge of tree-line.

Too loud for a fox, can't be a bear. He thought.

He shone the light. The cobwebs of the fence spread across the pine trees. He stood up and walked closer to the fence. He moved the light around but saw nothing. Then he heard the gate that led in to the drive way creak. He turned around.