Would tripping balls twenty-four hours a day start to suck eventually? To Randy Bartlett, this was a question of the utmost philosophical importance. He didn’t know if his grandmother loved it or not. She never complained in her moments of lucidity. Sitting around the deck, they smoked pot. The heat had died down with the setting sun. He cherried a bowl and held it to his grandmother’s lips. 

            “Breathe in, Grandma,” he said. 

            Ethel closed her eyes and leaned her head back on her wheelchair’s headrest. 

            “You’ve got to puff or I’ll never get a turn,” Randy’s grandfather...

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