The people had gathered around Randy Bartlett’s grandmother, and Randy did his best not to laugh. He had set up the bong on his grandparents’ porch, and the three of them were as baked as potatoes. For his grandmother Ethel, the pot helped with her glaucoma. For his grandfather Robert, it helped with his appetite. For Randy himself, it helped to kill the ambition he’d had for his life after college, which was good, because the recession had cleared up any confusion he’d had about the nature of dreams. Him getting a job directing films was as likely as Parkinson’s disease being cured before it took his grandmother. He would need to catch a break at any point, on anything, and that would mean moving to LA and giving up the drug ring he’d...

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