Mrs. Peacock sits in her white wicker chair complacently basking in a bright beam of warm October sunlight. She snoozes in and out of a luxurious dream— something indescribably lovely and peaceful— like heaven. The teapot awakens her with a whistle from the kitchen prompting her to get up and retrieve a steaming cup of chamomile. She strolls down the dim hall, fixes her cup, and meanders back through the hall again, returning to her quiet chair of comfort and relaxation. On the coffee table near her armrest rests an open romance novel, a stout vanilla bean candle burning down to a stub (but still releasing a soothing aroma), and a freshly rolled, perfectly packed, marijuana cigarette. Mrs. Peacock picks up the joint, holds it in her lips, and leans it into the candle’s flame. The tip ignites and she inhales deeply falling back into her seat as the glowing embers illuminate white-hot and then recede to a dull and steady red. She ashes it out after two pluming pulls and closes her eyes once more.