“I’m cutting back,” he says. At that precise moment, I bury my hands in the sweatshirt pockets and am met with a prerolled joint. I pull it out with a laugh. “I’ve been looking for that.” Miles plucks the joint from my fingers and pops it between his lips. “You gotta light.” “Sadly, no,” I say. “No, I mean, you’ve got a light,” he says. “Other pocket.” “Ah.” I withdraw the neon-orange plastic lighter and snap it open, blocking the wind until the flame catches.
