We'd each necked a pill from Greentooth, just to make sure we weren't being robbed. Or rather, Kirk had: I kept mine under my tongue then spat it down the hole these dirty backward bastards use for a toilet. Could have been anything. Kirk's my big bald guinea pig. I watch him closely, or as closely as I dare without him noticing. He's muttering, laughing, crying: runs along the beach and in the sea, full-clothed. Emerging, soaked, he growls and tries to catch a wild dog. When I call him he turns, staring at a stranger, then disappears behind a wall to yelp at invisible moons.
I smile. In my bag I have almost five hundred little PB pills.