The guy in the dusty grey hoodie next to me taps me on the shoulder, “Yo bro, you want a pull?” He hands me a neatly rolled joint. His fingers are grimy, particles of the weed he rolled up cling to the raw underside of his bitten nails.
I place the joint to my mouth as he lights the end with a cheap Bic lighter. I pull, long and slow, letting the pungent smoke ease into my lungs before exhaling, the smoke…
