The walk home felt different for the boy. He seemed to be more aware of things he hadn’t seemed to notice before. Birds chirping in trees that stood in patches of dirt along the concrete streets, the way the cars sounded as they zoomed past the traffic lights, even the way the group of guys who hung out in front of the deli stood on the corner. He felt good, clear minded and focused.

He made it home before he knew it, he announced himself as he entered the house.

“Grandma, I’m home!” The boy shouted. 

“Come here!” He heard her reply back, “I’m in the kitchen.”

He closed the front door behind him and walked through the living room, past the dining room, and into the kitchen. His grandmother was making a giant pot of spaghetti as Norman the dachshund lay quietly in his doggie bed, unconcerned.

“Tell me about your first day! How’d you get the job, what did you do?” She asked him enthusiastically as he gave her a kiss on the cheek.

The boy sat down, telling his grandmother about how he walked into the shop, the old man saying that he needed help, and how he saw the opportunity and took it. She laughed as he told her the old man made him clean the entire shop on his first day.

“Good!” She said with a smile, “You kids need to learn the value of hard work! I’m so proud of you, Junior.”

“Thanks grandma.” He said standing up to give her another kiss on the cheek. “I’ma go take a shower.”

“Ok baby.” She said, turning around to stir her pot of spaghetti, wiping the tears away from her eyes with her apron. “Dinner will be done by the time you’re out.”

As the boy put his gun back into his dresser drawer, he took out the bag of mushrooms. By the time I eat these, take a shower and have dinner, it’ll be time to smoke, he thought. He emptied out the contents into his hand, leaving the joint inside the bag.

This is a lot, he thought, as he stuffed the whole handful into his mouth and began to chew. While the boy didn’t mind the taste that much, he didn’t like how dry they were. 

He looked around the room for a bottle of water, finding one on his nightstand. He finished chewing his mushrooms and then guzzled down the entire bottle of water.

“Ugh!” He grunted as he began to cough. “He should have told me to take it with some juice or something, jeez.” He said to himself.

The boy took a long shower, thinking about what he had just down and wondering how long it would be before they took effect. He decided he’d better get out in case they hit him like a ton of bricks. He didn’t ask the old man how long it would take to kick in, and a feeling of worry and regret started to creep into his mind.

No, he thought as he shook off the feeling of dread, Labiba said not to worry, that I’ll be ok. After he got dressed, he pocketed the bag with the joint and went downstairs to make a bowl of spaghetti. He noticed the clock was 15 minutes away from his hour, and scarfed down his dinner quickly.

“I’m gonna be in the back if you need me, grandma.” He said after washing his bowl and fork.

“Ok dear.” He heard her reply from the living room, as she lay on her bed with Norman, entranced by her reality show.

He entered the shed, sitting down in his chair he pulled the joint from his pocket and smelled it for the first time. The old man was right, this is some good shit. He thought to himself as he lit the joint, sitting back to inhale deeply as he closed his eyes.

A warm feeling started to come over him, and he could feel his body start vibrating. He didn’t know if it was the weed, the mushrooms, or both, but he continued to puff on the joint, telling himself to relax. Noticing the buzz of the lightbulb, he opened his eyes and looked at the grow box in the other corner of the shed.

He got up and had to steady himself, his body felt drunk, like the room was somehow moving along simultaneously with his body, a tingling sensation that unsteadied his equilibrium.

He managed to open his growbox, the leaves of his plant moving as the air from the fan whirred against them. He could smell the sweet, pungent scent wafting through his nose. He noticed that the plant was moving, or was it breathing?

Either way, he felt connected to it, as if it were his child.

He reached out his hand and touched one of the leaves, rubbing it between his fingers. It really is quite beautiful, he thought. He took out the spray bottle and spritzed the soil thoroughly. He stared at his plant for what felt like a very long time, puffing away at his joint.

He held the joint between his thumb and index finger to see how much he had left, and realized the smoke was alive. It had a mind of its own, whipping and twirling through the air as it lifted itself towards the ceiling, spreading out until there was nothing left.

Next Chapter: Fear