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Summer was in full effect. The country boys were deep in their next harvest, and I was stacking money like never before. I was 20 years old, turning 21, and for the first time in my life, I felt ahead. No more struggling to eat. No more counting dollars at the gas pump. No more holding my breath every time my busted car hit a pothole, praying it wouldn’t break down. For the first time, money …

I kept making monthly runs to the country boys until August, when the quality started dropping and the supply thinned out. That’s the game especially when it comes to outdoor grows.  Even with a solid plug, there are good runs and there are dry spells—you take both. The last harvest was running out, the flower wasn’t as fresh, and they were scraping every last bit they could …

The drive to see the country boys became routine. Every trip, a little bigger than the last, stacking higher and higher—until the day Grandpa decided it was time to change the rules. Same front porch, same rocking chair, same overalls—every damn time. Six trips deep, and I’d never stepped foot inside his house. Never asked. Never invited. That wasn’t part of the deal. Pull …