“The apocalypse?” David said. “Well, in that case, I think it would have to be a Curly Wurly.”

“But a Curly Wurly is all holes!” Em’s voice was hot with outrage.

David lay back on the grass. He was lean and a little shorter than both Peter and Marcus. Whereas Peter burned, Em freckled, and Marcus and I tanned, the sun turned his skin a tawny color. His hair was a dirty blond, the kind that would lighten in streaks. He made me think of summer, not June, but of the shorter days of July, the heavier quality of the air.

“It’s the holes I want it for. They have a very special flavor,” David said.

After a bit, I offered him the hash and he took a turn skinning up. He did it neatly with deft fingers. David had nice hands. It was the first time I remember noticing whether someone’s hands were nice or not. The joint went round. There was a little rabbit-shaped cloud up above all on its own. At some point, Peter started up. When I tuned in, he was talking about Oxford.

“… an offer from Balliol. Of course I have to get the results. Law’s very competitive.” He was starting to speed up. “Do you know today’s the apocalypse? Andy’s … well, someone said it was going to be today, so we decided to pretend that it was, which is why we came here. Andy’s idea. She has a bit of a thing about this place. What would you do if it were the last day on earth? It’s funny, because I’d still want to know what happened at the end of my book. So I’d probably end up reading right through it.” On and on it went, without a pause for breath, Peter, like a trackside bookie, giving David the inside information on all of us. “… and Marcus’s uncle keeps an eye on it for your friend’s family, and Marcus is learning the business,” and “Em’s an artist, very talented. She’s really into Blake,” and finally, “Andy just wants to climb, she wants to be the English Catherine Destivelle.”

I preoccupied myself with looking at my hands and willing him to stop. It would have been bad anyway, but being stoned made an agony of it. It was the braying edge his voice took on, his tone both superior and queasily desperate. It was almost as if he was trying to make you hate him, when of course, his intention was the exact opposite.

When he did suddenly stop, I glanced up to see David had laid a hand on Peter’s forearm. The touch can’t have lasted a moment. I wasn’t sure if anyone else had even seen it. In the silence that followed, someone suggested leaving.