“Yes, a friend,” Peaches responded nervously. She reached into her windbreaker pocket for her wallet. “Thanks for coming so fast. I’ve never done this before.”

“Is she degenerating? I just want to be sure I’m giving you the best fit.”

Peaches sipped her beer. Stuart had said Mandy was getting worse. “Yes. Yes, I think so.”

He nodded and pointed beneath the bar. A small, benign brown paper bag hung from one of the hooks meant for stashing your purse. “I think that will provide the necessary lift. And if your friend prefers not to smoke it, there’s also a method of making butter with it, to put on toast or bake brownies or cookies with or what have you, that works extremely well. There’s a lotion too I can provide if needed. It’s from Greece.”

“Okay, great.” Peaches retrieved her credit card and slid it across the bar. He produced his phone, swiped the card through the credit card attachment, and handed it to her to sign with her finger.

A text message appeared on her phone. Cobble Hill General. For services rendered. $350.

And that was that, transaction complete.

“I better go rescue my dog. Thanks so much.” She retrieved the bag and stood up. “This was so much more civilized than I expected it to be.”

Dr. Conway smiled, his teeth gleaming and white. “I aim to please. Please be in touch whenever the need arises.”

Peaches giggled. She had a drug dealer now! “Oh, believe me, I will.”

Chapter 5

“Hey, so I have this idea.” Stuart placed a small brown shopping bag on the kitchen table. He’d picked it up from Peaches’ office that afternoon. “I think you should try smoking some weed.”

“Stu. You know how I get.” Mandy crossed her arms over her chest. “You think I’m a nightmare now.”

“You’re not a nightmare. Besides, this is medical marijuana.” Stuart removed the quaint glass jam jar from inside the bag. The jar was stuffed with dull green marijuana buds. He unscrewed the metal lid and took a whiff. “Wow.”

“Stu, please.”

Pot had always caused Mandy to act severely stupid and overly paranoid, the kind of high everyone hated. Once, in high school, after she and a bunch of other girls had shared a joint in a PE storage closet, she’d burst into the middle of a dress rehearsal for the musical Cats wielding a hockey stick and hissing at all the theater kids in their furry cat suits. She also always craved Fritos when she was high—bags and bags of Fritos—and she was already so fat. Medical weed was probably different though. You could tailor the high to your medical needs. But she didn’t have any medical needs, because she didn’t actually have MS.