Page 93 of When Wildflowers Bloom

“My doctor said it might help with some of the pain I’m feeling and with my appetite.” She fumbles to roll the joint between her fingertips. “I need you to show me how to do it.”

“What?! How would I know what to do?!” My voice raises in pitch. “I’ve never smoked anything in my life, how the hell would I know that?!”

Her eyes narrow at me as she waves the joint around. “You do all this healthy stuff, I figured you’d know!”

“Me?!” I laugh incredulously. “You’re the potter! Isn’t that, like, in the job requirement to do drugs?”

Her eyes widen, as if that’s a ridiculous stereotype, and she huffs out an annoyed breath. “Fine. You don’t know how to do drugs and I don’t know how to do drugs, but I want you to show me how to smoke this.” She catches my look ofyou’ve got to be kidding mebefore saying, “We can look it up on your fancy phone or something.”

My eyes slide from the joint in her hand to her face.

“Isn’t this bad for you?”

She barks out a laugh. “Birdie, I’m dying of cancer, sweetheart. Who gives a damn?”

It’s a valid point.

I look at the joint again. Then her. Then the joint.

“You don’t have to do it, just help me light it and show me what to do.”

I groan. “Fine.” Then add, “But you can never tell Bo I helped you get stoned.”

She waves the joint around dismissively. “Bo smoked enough pot in high school to fuel the entire West Coast, but your secret is safe with me.”

My eyes widen, and my chin jerks back; again, she laughs.

With another sigh, I pull out my phone, searchinghow to smoke marijuana.

“Is it even in your mouth?”

Her pinched fingers tremble around it as she mumbles something I don’t understand through her joint-pursed lips.

“The video said you have to take a long inhale and it will light the end. Are you sucking?” I press the button on the lighter—again—so the flame burns at the end.

Veda makes some blowing motion around the joint before pulling it out of her mouth. “You have to start it Birdie, I can’t,” she says, shoving the joint toward me.

“Me?” I gasp. “Do you know how harmful that stuff is?”

“Do you?” she demands.

I hate that it’s a legitimate question because I have no idea. Picking up my phone again, I typeharmful side effects of marijuana.

If the government is monitoring me, they will have a field day with this.

“Aha!” I shout, scrolling down my phone as I read the response. “Marijuana is considered relatively safe when used appropriately,” I begin, frowning when she laughs and says, “See!”

“Wait—there’s more—short-term impaired memory and cognition can occur, slower reaction times, altered judgment.” I raise my eyebrows at her likeSee?before continuing, “And! And!” I point my finger into the air, raising my voice with excited conviction. “Prolonged use can irritate the lungs and lead to bronchitis!”

I smile proudly, as if I’ve said something damning.

Veda rolls her eyes. “Birdie, it’s one joint, it won’t give you bronchitis.” She pauses, narrows her eyes, then, “I’m dying, you can’t deny a dying woman her wish.”

My nostrils flare. Because of all the things to say, she seems to be forgetting the wish Iamkeeping.

I glare at her. The audacity of this woman. The damn nerve.

She opens her mouth to argue, but before she can, I snatch the joint out of her hand, pinch it between my lips, and flick the lighter on.

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