No one is home. No lights are on. On top of the table sits ten blocks of Marijuana tightly wrapped in cellophane. Next to it, scales and small sandwich baggies. Bobby enters the trailer. 

Dad? Hey, dad. Where are you? He turns on a light and sees the pot laid out on the table. Hey, Pop. Come out, come out wherever you are, Bobby laughs. He sits on the couch and unwraps a brick of buds. He smells it, tears off a little, and pulls a pipe out of his jacket. He packs it loosely and lights the green pieces of plants. Dad? He inhales. Get out here. Come on now. Gotta sample the product. Bobby takes another hit. Dad?

The old man comes home. He looks at Bobby, who is still sitting on the couch staring into space.

Boy? Are you stoned? Bobby looks up at him. He nods his head and hits the pipe on the table. Shouldn’t be doing that, Walter tells him. That’s money you’re wasting there, boy. Bobby packs another round.

The old man sits next to Bobby and picks up the remote. He fumbles it around in his hand, drops it, and bends over to get it. Points it at the TV. Damn thing.

Bobby laughs. You’re still trying to make it work, aren’t you? The old man pushes harder on the remote.  It’s broken, dad. The screen is busted. You can’t see that? The old man still points at the screen. I’ve told you a million times.

Bobby, Walter says. If poverty teaches you anything, it’s endurance.