Wind slams the trailer. Dolores and Marty cook through the Nor’easter. JJ’s late.
“He ain’t coming,” Marty says. “Time to sample the goods.”
The blade slices the white mound, tap-tap-tapping crystalline lines on glass.
“JJ’s gonna be pissed.” Dolores malt-liquored breath scatters the powder.
Marty shrugs, rolls the twenty. Saliva gushes.
The door blows open.