"Someone left the goddammed gate open again, and the dog took off," my father yelled from the backyard.

Me and Bill were in the back shed smoking a crooked hash joint. When he started yelling, Bill panicked and dropped it, and then crushed it under his foot. But he didn't realize he wasn't wearing any shoes. He screamed as the cherry burnt into his sole.

I swallowed hard and waited for the inevitable.

Four deep breaths later, the door swung open on rusty hinges and my dad stood there, Taking up the whole of the doorway, blocking out the sun.

"Hey Mr. Stockwell," Bill said, hopping on one foot.

Dad was about to ask was the hell we were doing in the shed, when he crinkled his nose, took a long whiff and knew.

"Jesus Christ, Kimberly. Not this shit again," he said. I closed my eyes and waited for him to finish his tirade. But he never even started. When I opened my eyes, he was walking across the lawn, shaking his head and muttering to himself. I looked at Bill and he shrugged.

I pulled my shirt back on and stepped out of the smoky shed and into the late afternoon.