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The drive had become second nature.

Country roads. Cell service dropping off. White knuckles on the steering wheel. A silence between songs that hung in the car like fog. Just me, my thoughts, and the low hum of tires eating miles on the backroads of Kentucky.

I was a regular by this point. Like a milkman or the trash guy—always showing up at the same place, same time, without question. Except I wasn’t delivering or collecting garbage. I was moving weight. Every trip a little heavier than the last, every handshake a little more familiar.

Same porch. Same rocking chair. Same man in overalls, shirtless, slow sips from a chipped ceramic mug that probably hadn’t seen soap in a decade.

And just like every time before, I pulled up, nodded, said nothing, and headed straight for the barn.

But not this time.

“Damn boy, you back again? Let’s sit for a minute. You want somethin’ to drink?”

I froze. Not out of fear—but confusion. That porch? That was his throne. No one sat there unless they were invited, and no one had been invited. Until now.

I sat down slowly, aware of the gravity of that wooden chair under me. The breeze caught the porch screen and fluttered. It was quiet—like the farm itself was holding its breath.

He didn’t look at me. Just rocked. Sip, creak, rock. Sip, creak, rock.

“Somethin’s gotta change here,” he said after a long silence. “You’re makin’ too many trips. Bringin’ attention to yourself in this town.”

Just like that, my gut dropped.

I didn’t speak. Didn't flinch. Just stared ahead, watching a crow peck at something in the distance. This was the kind of moment where you didn’t interrupt. You didn’t ask questions. You let the man speak and hoped it didn’t end with you digging your own shallow grave out back.

“You’re movin’, what… 20, 25 pounds a month?”

I nodded, slow. “Yeah. About that.”

He rocked once. Twice. Thought about it.

Then, without warning:

“I know you don’t have enough money to buy a month’s worth at once, so here’s what we’ll do. I’m gonna start givin’ you credit. Whatever you can pay for, I’ll front the other half.”

Just like that.

Credit. Like a goddamn bank loan—but in the shadows. No paperwork. No signatures. Just a man’s word and a nod on a porch in the middle of nowhere.

My mind started racing. More money. Bigger flips. Faster stacking.
No nine-to-five. No clocking in. Just this.

I could feel the blood rushing to my head. Not from fear this time—but from the rush.

“Absolutely,” I said. “That would be amazing.”

He stood up, joints creaking like the old porch boards beneath him.

“Well then,” he said, “let’s go.”

---

The walk to the barn felt different.

The trees looked greener. The gravel louder under my boots. I was high on the future. Eyes wide with what was possible. I wasn’t even listening to what he was saying anymore—I was in a trance, dreaming of freedom. Of exits. Of LA.

We pulled up.

“We’re at the end of the last harvest,” he said. “No more till we start cuttin’ again. So I want you to take what we got. As much as you can.”

I unzipped my backpack. Pulled out four rubber-banded bricks of bills.
Each stack, $5,000. Neat. Clean. Like it came from a mob movie.

Then added a loose grand on top.

“I’ve got enough for 15 pounds.”

He didn’t blink.

“Okay. Grab thirty. You get the pick. Start sealing before you load up.”

---

Thirty pounds.

I stood there, stunned for a second.

That cooler in my trunk was going to be working overtime.

And then I got to it—like a man on a mission.

Every pound I picked, I chose carefully. Smelled it. Looked at the trim. Felt the weight. I wasn’t just buying weed. I was curating inventory. I was selecting the right weapons for the next battle.

Each pound, vacuum-sealed by hand, laid flat and tight, but not to tight to fuck up the bud.
A ritual. A dance. A passion

By the time I was done, the cooler was heavy. Packed solid. That “slightly suspicious Igloo cooler” now contained more than some people make in a year.

I wasn’t just in the game anymore.

I was deep.

---

I didn’t go back to my job after that.

No more double shifts. No more slinging boxes at UPS. No more pretending I was just passing time before “real life” started.

This was my job now.
This was the “real life” I’d been hurtling toward, whether I knew it or not.

The road back home felt different too.

I wasn’t nervous.

I was focused.

There was weight in the car.
There was purpose in the silence.
And there was no turning back.

Not now.