A snowblower keeps shutting off and on at seven in the morning. Semis going up and down Highway 41 sound like waves crashing on the beach. A chained up dog barks.

Walter looks out the window at boys shoveling driveways or making a path for cars in their yards.

The bricks of pot on the table are dwindling down; some are sold, and some smoked by Bobby. Walter notices that the scale is off; broken. He sits on the couch and tries to adjust them. He grows more and more frustrated at the busted apparatus. He picks it up and throws it against the wall, breaking it into bits and pieces.

Nothing works, the old man says. Junk. That’s all we have in this house. Junk, he kicks a beer can across the floor. Bobby knocks on the door and enters before the old man can get up to answer. It.

What a fucking mess, Bobby says. He sees the busted scale. What did you do?

Damn thing doesn’t work.

I could’ve fixed it.

Why didn’t you?

Listen. I’m in charge of this operation.  What I say goes. Just don’t touch anything. Hear me? Leave shit alone.

The old man mumbles incoherently. He stumbles around, looking for a cigarette and a small bottle of whiskey. 

Where are my smokes?

Gone.

You took them?

Bobby reaches in his jacket and pulls out a pack. He tosses one to the old man.

A thank you would be nice.

Thank you.

Snowblowers have stopped. The dog continues to bark. Kids are throwing snowballs. Bobby and Walter look at the nearly empty table.

It’s almost all gone. What have we got to show for it?

Bobby shakes his head and pulls out a hundred dollar bill. The old man smiles.

We’re rich, says Walter.

Yeah. We’re rich.