Vignettes From A Dream

A Novel by Charles Adrian Trevino
Copyright October 2024

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MARIJUANA

Casey Talon smiled blithely, as he drove his shiny new van down the surrealistic, tree-lined streets through a light pre-dawn foggy mist. Listening to a favorite song resounding loudly through his excellent, but very expensive speakers, he was feeling both a sense of childlike, energized excitement, and calm inner peace. The morning was calling, and he knew it would be another good one; just like it had been the day before, and the day before that... and would be tomorrow, too. The weather report had assured him of it.

He had gotten this good news from the highest authority, the very reliable local coastal forecast, which also promised an even better gift: a large ocean swell, generated by a violent storm that was raging out at sea directly to the west. That storm was even now pushing fifteen-foot high waves straight towards the numerous rock reefs that lay off the golden, sandy beaches of his home town; providentially-designed reefs, the first thing the ocean lines contacted as they marched inexorably shoreward out of deep water, lifting the purple kelp beds skyward. Reefs that focused the swells into perfectly shaped, beautiful blue peaks that seemed to be created just for surfing... a glorious display of God's benevolence and love; or so it seemed to Casey.

He had many, many reasons to be happy and optimistic. He was about to celebrate his thirteenth birthday, and everything seemed to be going his way... and had been for quite awhile. His life in general had always been a happy, well-ordered affair as far back as he could remember, with very few exceptions. But lately the pace of his life seemed to be shifting into a higher gear, thanks to a favorable juncture of circumstances that might never have even happened, if he hadn't caught a middling common cold.

This minor illness had prompted his parents to grant him a day off from school, something they rarely allowed. So he had lounged in bed as the rest of the household buzzed to life, trying to look seriously ill. After his family members had all left for jobs and school, Casey had gotten up and meandered down the hallway, intending to mount his trusty but rapidly rusting bicycle and cruise down the street to the beach, which was only one block away, to see if there were any waves to surf. As he passed by his older brother's bedroom, he was pleasantly surprised to find that Terry had also "ditched" school... but not because he was sick. Terry had inconspicuously foregone his morning classes to do a business deal with his friend, the freewheeling, pot-dealing Brett Fairburner. His dirt poor, but business-oriented brother Terry was buying a one-ounce bag of very expensive marijuana from Brett, with the intent of dividing it into grams and eighth-ounces to sell to his many "rich" weed-smoking friends, in order to partake of a small portion for himself at no cost.

Like Casey himself, Terry seemed to be eternally broke... but quite satisfied with life, as most teenaged surfers were inclined to be. He had introduced his young but precocious little brother to the heady world of high-quality marijuana... a highly questionable habit for an eleven year old. But Casey had always been mature for his age, and extremely intrepid as well; besides, like Terry, he was a natural born hedonist. That's why he had followed his brother into the marvelous world of surfing, as well as the problematic world of pot.

Casey always took great delight in the memory of that fateful "sick" day, when he had unobtrusively slipped into Terry's bedroom, taking a seat on a stool in the corner to observe the dope deal going down. Slightly annoyed, Brett had briefly nodded at him in tolerant acceptance... then continued on with his sales pitch.

"This is no ordinary bud, Terry," Brett boasted, as he held up a picture-perfect, multi-colored flowertop to the lamplight. "This is some of the weed the government grows for their medical experiments... it's the best, most potent stuff you can't buy, if you don't know Brett Fairburner!" Brett laughed merrily. "So be glad you do," he smirked, turning his head to wink jovially at Casey. "You too, little weed-smoking brat."

"Right, Brett... so that's why you're bankrupting me for one tiny little ounce, huh?" Terry sneered. "Let me see that bud right here in my hand, before you pinch any more from my bag... come on, give it over! Three hundred bucks an ounce, my ass... I can't believe you sometimes, you robbing son of a...". Terry mumbled the rest of his sentence under his breath, as he held out his hand.

Brett tossed the contraband disdainfully to Terry, but his aim was poor and the open plastic baggie landed at his feet instead. A few seeds fell out and rolled across the floor, disappearing under Terry's bed. "What's this? Seeds, you sidewinding serpent?" Terry threw a mock punch in Brett's direction. "I guess this government sinsemilla ain't so virginal, huh?" he quipped chidingly. "I demand a discount! I don't pay top dollar for seeds, pal."

"Fool!" Terry yelled. "Those seeds are an aberration! You won't find anymore in that bag, I promise it. And besides, they're worth a fortune... you'll agree, after you take just one pipe hit. Can't you smell how good it is? Now have a taste, and I guarantee you'll shut up... and willingly pay up, you ass."

Casey looked on quietly as the two potheads shared a small pipeload, noting the unusually fragrant aroma of the smoke... a sure sign that Brett hadn't been joking about the high quality. Terry quickly handed Brett his life savings, three hundred dollars in small bills, and a light suddenly came to life inside Casey's artful head. He continued to sit quietly, but thoughts of future riches had begun to race through his mind.

As the drug started taking effect, the older boys began to act very merry and lighthearted indeed; they seemed to forget all about the younger boy sitting in the corner as they stumbled out of the room. Laughing and jostling each other, they headed for the kitchen refrigerator downstairs to get something to whet their dry mouths. A few seconds later Casey was on the floor, quickly retrieving two small seeds from under Terry's bed. That single act of sly cunning had marked the beginning of his enormous fortune... and his freedom.

They were like no seeds he had ever seen, with intensely dark black stripes running down their sides that looked as though they had been etched on by a laser. He planted the two seeds in separate pots, large enough to let their roots grow fast and strong, and was delighted when they quickly sprang up into two beautiful, thick-leaved male and female plants. Checking out a gardening manual from the local library, he'd learned how to clone and breed his two prized possessions. Over time he had parlayed them into a never-ending line of extremely valuable plants, after getting his father's approval to convert a small guest room adjoining the garage into a greenhouse, which he kept securely locked at all times. Just to be extra safe, he had inconspicuously disguised it as a storage shed so as not to arouse curiosity. Casey and his family had many friends, who constantly dropped by to say hello.

It had not been that hard to get his parents to allow his well-thought out gambit. His father was a successful electrical contractor who made good money, but had always been a hard drinker, which had worried his mother something awful... until Casey persuaded them both to actually try the herb they had formerly frowned upon. Soon after smoking a small amount, his dad began to giggle and make jokes about everything, and his mother, relieved to see that her husband wasn't drinking at all, had put a record of classical music on the turntable and settled into her favorite easy chair, a blissful smile on her face. And that had been that; he was in the pot-growing business. With his very appreciative, partner-in-crime brother helping him find buyers for his top-grade weed, Casey quickly began to amass a small fortune, hand over fist. It had been a very pleasurable experience indeed for a young, pre-teenage boy.

As he weaved his way further along the winding streets leading to the highway that skirted the sleeping town of Emerald Beach, Casey's sunny smile abruptly turned into a frown. A police car was sitting by the side of the road, facing towards him; as he approached it, he saw the red and blue light atop its cab turn on. He drew in his breath pensively and gently tapped his brake pedal, trying to make his rapidly dropping speed less noticable; but a speeding ticket was actually the least of his worries. He had other concerns, the first one being that he was carrying an illegal substance; his own home-grown and alarmingly strong smelling weed. Another less grave concern was that he was driving his shiny new car without a valid license. This was not due to neglect or inadvertence; Casey was simply too young to legally apply for one, since he was only twelve years old. Although the car was properly registered and tabbed, thanks to his older brother's assistance, a traffic stop might lead to a search of his vehicle, with disastrous results given the tell-tale stink of his excellent pot. The herb reeked to high heaven, much like an irritated skunk, and the prospect of arrest and incarceration lay heavily upon his mind.

As he slowly passed the patrol car, glancing pensively at its driver, Casey let out a sigh of relief; it was only Mike the Cop, an aptly-nicknamed local surfer who was another friend of Terry's. Mike gave him a stern look and turned on his siren for a quick half-second, but let the underaged motorist pass undisturbed. Casey grinned and nodded his head in gratitude; he thought he saw Mike breaking out into laughter, right before he turned his eyes back to the road, but couldn't be sure. And he sure as hell wasn't going to stick around to find out.

The morning was calling to him again, as his thoughts turned back to the task at hand, which was getting to his favorite beach in time to don his wetsuit and paddle out alone into a blessedly-active, if somewhat nippy ocean. As he turned onto the highway, he shifted his weight on the thick cushion he'd bought to elevate himself to a more adult-looking stature, and pressed down hard on the gas pedal. It was Casey's penchant to be the first surfer to hit the water in the morning, especially since the sport had lately exploded in popularity, to the point where it was becoming a problem for him to get his share of waves in a crowd consisting mostly of older, bigger guys. But he did always manage to get his share, his surfing skills being of a much higher level than the more recent enthusiasts; for Casey had been playing in the ocean since he was three years old, and had been surfing since he was seven. Not yet thirteen, he could quite simply surf rings around the bigger guys.

Nodding along to the rhythm of the rock music pouring out of his car speakers, Casey began to think about his good fortune; not just his more recent good fortune, but the pleasant disposition of his life in general. He had many interests; in addition to his love of surfing, he had enjoyed playing piano and guitar for many years now, having learned both when he was quite young - so he was already quite proficient in those areas as well. A bright lad, he was a voracious reader, earned high grades at school, and was on good terms with most of his teachers... the most important one being his first-period physical education coach, who had seen fit to occasionally allow Casey to skip his early morning class when the waves were big. The kind and understanding teacher, who wholly approved of the sport, had agreed with him that since he was doing something physical that involved learning, it wasn't such a bad thing to let him slide once in a while. In fact, that was what Casey was doing at this very moment... going surfing instead of going to his morning class.

He arrived at his destination as the first light of morning began to show, pleased to find both the parking lot and beach empty of surfers. True to the surf report's promise, the waves were rolling in consistently; more than double overhead, they were throwing out perfectly shaped curls that reeled off in both directions for quite a distance. The life-giving torch of the approaching sun was doing its job once again, right on time; it would be another clear and sunny, gloriously beautiful day. He would be the first one to paddle out, as usual; but he felt sure that this solitude would not last very long. And he had a feeling that the first surfer to disturb his peace would be Danny Stokes, his long-time friend but equally keen surfing arch-rival.

A year older, Joey was just as precociously intrepid as Casey, and often "borrowed" his late-sleeping mother's car to sneak in an early surf session before school. But that was where their similarities ended; Joey was the exact opposite of Casey, in almost every respect. For one thing, he shunned drugs like marijuana, and razzed his friend mercilessly for illegally selling weed... especially at such a high price.

"Well, hello... if it isn't the evil pusher man himself," Danny would jeer, with a big fake smile. "Have you addicted any sixth-grade girls today? While you're stealing their candy money, you druglord piece of dirt?" Casey always took the jabs and jeers in stride, fending them off with a mock-guilty expression. He had to secretly admit that Joey's straightlaced abstinence was an honorable thing, something he admired in a world full of weak hedonists and corrupt opportunists... like himself. Also, Danny and he had a competitive thing going about which of them was the better surfer; this good-natured but fierce rivalry had driven both of them to the highest heights of expertise, as they constantly battled for supremacy in the water.

Thinking of Danny made Casey chuckle mirthfully, as he changed into his wetsuit and waxed his shiny new surfboard. Then, as was his usual habit just before bolting, he pulled out a thin pre-rolled marijuana cigarette hidden under his seat, along with a book of matches. He was just about to commence his usual much loved ritual of getting high before paddling out, when an unpleasantly errant thought struck him, making him hesitate.

The night before, Casey had watched a television documentary about Muselims, a large religous group that observed rules much stricter than the somewhat loose standards he and his friends practiced. The last thing he'd seen before falling asleep was a girl about his age, who was being interviewed about her religous austerity, and how it impacted her recreational life in particular. In many respects she seemed to be much like the Christians in his own country, attempting to enjoy life as much as she could without offending her God; but something she had said had made him reflect on his own relentless pursuit of pleasure, and what it might be doing to him. She had talked about how Muselims occasionally refrained from partaking of a pleasurable pursuit in favor of going to a worship service, to show respect to their God. Hearing her words as he was drifting off to sleep had seemed to trigger a very unpleasant dream; a recurring nightmare that had been plaguing him for some time. A dream that always shook him to the depths of his soul upon waking up.

It would start out a different way every time, as his recurring dreams often did, but it always ended in the same disconcerting manner. He would hear deep, labored breathing, with angry, mocking voices sounding in the background, but his vision was obscured; he could only make out small flashes of light and dim, shifting shapes of various colors. His sight would slowly come into clearer focus, as he began to realize that the troubled breathing he was hearing was his own. Then the scary part would begin.

He was always looking downwards from an elevated position, at a jeering, jostling crowd that was being held back by guards adorned in colorful uniforms. The flashes of light he had been seeing was sunlight reflecting off of the guard's metal helmets, rays of sunlight filtering through an overcast, foreboding and ominous looking orange and red sky. He would feel an intense thirst that threatened to choke him, so dry was his mouth and throat; then the pain would start.

Although Casey could never recall actually suffering physical pain in a dream, in this particular one he would feel it strongly enough to remember... pain so bad it made him want to writhe, but he could not move his limbs. Then something would happen that always shook him back to wakeful reality. He would see a long pole coming up at him, with some obscure object attached to its end. It would rise up to his mouth; it looked moist and damp, and he would open his mouth and try to suck on it, in a pathetic attempt to draw out some moisture to quench his burning thirst. But instead of drawing out water, he would taste something awful that turned his stomach, making the torture even more dreadful. Then he would abruptly wake up, his pillow and sheets drenched in sweat.

Standing alone in the parking lot in the dim morning light, Casey grimaced as he recalled the nightmare, and a shudder ran through his body. This was no way to start a glorious surfing session, he thought. He shrugged off the memory of the night before... but something bade him to forego lighting up the joint in his hand. Smoking pot could sometimes make him feel more edgy than high, and his recollection of the night before had made him start to feel decidedly edgy.

Putting aside the joint and matches, he locked his car doors and picked up his surfboard. Then he was running across the soft, early morning wind-manicured sand, his heart beating fast in anticipation. The light gray sky was beginning to transform into a lovely shade of pale blue, mirroring the beautiful early-morning waves; as usual, Casey remembered to thank God above for giving him another excellent surf, before launching his board and body into the foaming ocean. It was easy to love God when one's life was blessed, as his seemed to be.

Paddling strenuously past the violently crashing shorebreak, he made his way out to the calm and serene deeper water. Sitting up on his board to rest, he found himself looking skywards instead of out to sea; for some reason the immense, engrossing blue beauty was commanding his full attention. He sat there for a while floating peacefully, completely absorbed in the lightening sky; just a tiny, insignificant speck in the vast empty ocean.

Suddenly he snapped back to attention; something very real was demanding his notice now. A large, pyramid-shaped mound of water was coming at him, silently but rapidly; it was almost on him. In an instant he had whipped his board around, paddling furiously to match the speed of the wave as it lifted him violently upwards. He sprung to his feet as the wave pitched him over its edge, involuntarily spreading his arms like a winged bird in flight as he free-fell down the vertical face.

A glorious sense of freedom pervaded his senses. He was the only person out, all alone amongst abounding acres of glassy blue water. There was no other person or thing to obstruct his flight path. As he passed the midway point of the drop, he began to lean into a turn... then instantly decided not to. Compressing his body into a tight crouch, he drove straight ahead towards the shore until he was well ahead of the wave, which was building up into a perfectly tapering wall behind him.

Leaning over hard, Casey reached down and grabbed the water with his right hand. Wheeling his board around into a sharp, almost 180-degree turn, he headed back up to the top of the wave, intent on launching himself over the crest and dropping back in again; but halfway there, that eurphoric feeling of freedom came over him again, and he suddenly decided to go for the impossible. Pressing his curving arc harder as he ascended, Casey doubled over to plant his hand in the water again, carving a graceful turn across the smooth textured face directly under the curl. Upside down, his board now above his body, he quickly turned back downwards as a thick liquid sheet fell over him like a waterfall, slapping him hard on the head and shoulders. A second or two later, he had punched through the air pocket at the base of the wave in a tight crouch and found himself free again, speeding along ahead of the angry whitewater.

Casey stood straight up again, letting out a loud rebel yell; after many failed attempts, he had successfully completed a carving 360-degree turn directly under the falling lip. He decided to pull out over the top of the wave, foregoing the rest of what would have been a long ride. Casey was elated; this was surely why God had created the sea, the storms that drove the waves shoreward, the offshore winds that brushed the ocean surface smooth, and Casey himself... to have fun! It was so wonderfully obvious.

He paddled back outside to wait for another wave as he contemplated his glorious accomplishment, but the waves had stopped coming. How odd, he found himself musing, that only one single wave had come to him instead of the usual multi-wave set; could it have been a sign from God, a reward for foregoing his hedonistic pre-surf smoke? The thought made him break out into a mischievous smile, and he found himself looking up again at the circling blue sky. Then something happened that he would never forget, for as long as he lived.

The sky suddenly flashed pure white, as if from a huge lightning bolt that transformed night into day... even though it was already light, and had been for several minutes. He instinctively put his hand to his eyes to ward off the blinding flash; then he heard an earsplitting clap of thunder, terrifying in its volume. He inadvertently found himself ducking his head as another, even more violent explosion sounded seconds later, completely drowning out the first. As the loud rumbling noise began to slowly, very slowly ebb away, like some monstrously huge departing animal, Casey went into a dream.

He felt as if he was gently rising upwards, as he fell backwards onto the deck of his surfboard... then nothing else for what seemed like a long while. The next thing he perceived was a feeling of being shaken, as if someone was trying to rouse him from a deep sleep. He could hear a distant voice off in the distance; as it got closer and louder, he began to hear his own name, over and over.

"Casey! Casey! Casey, wake up!"

Casey opened his eyes slowly, feeling groggy and disoriented. The first thing he saw was the blue sky circling over his head again, as he suddenly realized that he was still lying supinely on his surfboard; but now he was resting on the sandy beach, just above the waterline. The next thing that came into view was the worried face of his friend Danny Stokes, looming over him; it was Danny that had been shaking and calling him.

Slowly he rose up to a half-sitting position. "Danny... what the... what's happening..." Casey murmurred, holding his head in a state of complete confusion. "What happened?"

Danny exhaled heavily, as if relieved of a great burden. "You tell me, buddy," he said in amazement.

"How... what's going on? How'd I get here?"

"I got you here! You were floating on your board out there, lying on your back with your hands clasped across your stomach, like you were dead or something! I thought you were dead, man!" Danny exclaimed, his voice still registering complete wonderment. "Man, there were fifteen-foot top-to-bottom tubes going off on either side of you! I had to ditch my board and push you back in... man, what were you doing? I thought you'd had a stroke or something, from smoking all that weed..."

"Oh... oh, man. Thanks, Danny... oh, shit..." Casey raised his other hand to his head, shaking it in disbelief.

"Yeah, thank me... I had a hell of a time pushing you in through that shorebreak in one piece! I had to leave my board out there..." Danny turned around to look out at the ocean, only to see his surfboard getting sucked over a violent shorepound wave; it disappeared in an explosion of whitewater. It resurfaced a few seconds later folded over, broken down the middle.

"Well, there she goes... damn," Danny said, in a tone of tired resignation.

"Don't worry about the board, I'll buy you a new one... gosh damn Danny, thanks for pulling me out! I don't what the hell happened... I swear, I was just... I don't know..." Casey was at a loss for words.

Recovering from his shock, Danny was turning back into his old sarcastic self. "Oh, great! Great, Casey! You'll just buy me another one... from your druglord proceeds! Dude, I think that was why you had the stroke... from all that crap you guys smoke. You know the Yahoos are putting all kinds of shit in that stuff..."

"No, it wasn't like that... I only smoke what I grow, my own weed. Danny, what the hell happened out there? I... I think I got struck by lightning... I heard this huge clap of thunder..." Casey tried to stand up, then thought better of it. Holding his head again, he sank back down to a sitting position.

"What? There wasn't any lightning, or thunder. I got here right after you did... I saw you paddling out as I was putting on my wesuit. Look at that sky up there!" Danny pointed upwards towards a beautifully clear blue sky. "I think the drugs are getting to you, old boy; now you're hearing thunder and lightning? Don't you remember what happened?"

"I swear, I don't remember a damn... Danny!" Dropping his hands from his now clearing head, Casey straightened up. "I pulled off a carving 360! Did you see it? Did you see it?"

"Naw, all I saw was you lying out there dead. I tell you, I thought we had lost you... it took me a long time to get to you, there was a big set going off..." Danny exhaled again in exasperation. " I tell you Case, I don't know how you didn't get murdered out there... maybe it was God, giving you one last chance. Warning you! You know how you are, pushing expensive weed on screwed-up addicts all the time..."

"Shut up with that! I don't push weed, I deal it... to my brother's more affluent acquaintances only, okay? Sheeesh..." Reverting to his usual feisty self, Casey had completely recovered from his bewilderment.

"So how do you know they aren't screwed up? Rich people are the most likely to go down... 'cause they're weak, the spoiled bastards. Just like you, pal." Danny stood up. "Well, I better get my broken in half board, I don't want to litter the beach... c'mon, help me carry the pieces."

The two surfers stood up and walked to the water, where Danny quickly retrieved his surfboard. The fiberglass was still holding it in one piece, making it easier for Danny to carry back to his mother's station wagon. As they walked back across the sand to the parking lot, Casey was thinking about what Danny had just said; now the suggestion of divine retribution was really starting to bother him. And the dream, that nightmare last night...

"Danny... do you really think it might have been God? Punishing me?" Casey looked penitively at his friend. "But I really don't mean to hurt anybody... smoking a little pot once in a while isn't that bad, really; it's better than alcohol, or hard drugs, if you think about it..."

"Doesn't hurt anybody?" Danny snapped. "What about Joey, your ex-best friend? The best friend that won't hang with you anymore? The one who had to move away? He couldn't handle it... look what happened to him, 'cuz of you!"

Casey looked down at his bare feet as they approached the parking lot, reflecting on what Danny's reproachful words. Joey Wong had been his best, most trusted friend from childhood; they had practically grown up together, like two brothers. He had shared some of the best times of his life with the equally adventurous boy. But Joey's father was strict to an extreme extent... wary of the debilitating effects of drugs, he was as hard as nails on his only child. He had started to frown heavily on Joey's relationship with Casey, after hearing rumors that "the long-haired hippie child" had started peddling drugs.

It was Casey that had influenced Joey to try smoking weed with him; he had thought he was doing his friend a favor, turning him on to something good; but Joey had not handled the drug well at all. His grades at school had plummeted, and he had started to party heavily, staying out with his friends until late in the evening. Upon noticing the changes in his son's behavior, Joey's domineering father had reacted predictably and accordingly. Joey was always resentful of his father's tyranny, but after the outraged man had forebade him from hanging out with his best friend Casey and the other "druggies," Joey had started becoming outright rebellious. When his father made him cut his longish hair very short, it was the last straw; Joey had run away from home.

He had quickly been caught a day later, hitchhiking down the highway in a sorry, disheveled state. He had been robbed at gunpoint, losing a small amount of money and the two overnight bags he was carrying; but Joey had not been hitching a ride back home. He'd been caught going the same direction that he started out in... headed away from home.

"Oh, yeah... Joey. I forgot." Abashed, Casey glanced guiltily at Danny as they laid down their burdens on the paved ground and unlocked their cars, parked side by side.

"Oh yeah, Joey!" Danny just wouldn't quit. Casey turned away from him, saying nothing more as the two surfers dried off and changed back into their street clothes; he was thinking remorsefully about his lost friend. After reclaiming his runaway son, Joey's father had moved his family to another city entirely, to get them away from the corrupt influences of the "decadent" town of Emerald Beach. Although Joey was staying in touch with Casey via an occasional, much valued letter, the loss of his best friend had hurt him deeply. But at least Joey was alright; Casey derived some comfort, as well as an enormous sense of gratitude from that.

"Well... see you later, partner," said Danny, as he climbed into his car. "Gotta' get back before my mom wakes up. Hope you feel better, Case; I do hope that. Take care of yourself, pal." Starting his engine, Danny began to back up, then stopped. Rolling down his window, he asked a final question of his younger friend.

"Hey Casey... did you really pull of a carving 360?"

Casey's face lit up into a beaming smile. "Sure as hell did, Danny boy... sure as hell did," he said proudly.

"I'll be damned... maybe God doesn't hate you so much after all!" Danny laughed jeeringly as he pulled away.

"God had nothing to do with it!" Casey yelled after him in mock indignation, as Danny exited the parking lot.

Climbing into his shiny new van, Casey headed off towards his nearby junior high school; he wouldn't be late for his second period class after all. He always carried a small vial of shampoo in his car, so that he could take a quick shower in the gym locker room before racing off to his second class. He was still basking in the warm glow of victory, in the aftermath of his short, albeit glorious ride; but a black, ominous cloud of anxiety lingering in the back shadows of his mind was threatening to kill his usual bright, positive mood. Shrugging off the guilty feeling, he drove on.

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Vignettes From A Dream - Marijuana - Copyright October 2024 by Charles Adrian Trevino.