Seed Money.

Danny had one foot inside Walt’s when a man in the nearest booth lifted a hand.

“You got a minute?”

“I just got here.”

“Yeah. I was hoping I’d catch you.”

Danny stopped with his hand still on the door.

“You out?”

“Since Tuesday.”

Danny held the door open. The man got up slowly, bracing a hand against the table, and followed him outside.

They went to Art’s car. Art moved a sweatshirt off the passenger seat, and Danny got in. A paper air freshener hung from the mirror. Whatever it had been doing was over.

Danny took a small bag of weed out of his jacket. Art held it under the dome light and turned it over. A few loose seeds rolled along the bottom.

“Little seedy,” Danny said.

“They always are.”

Art put the bag in his shirt pocket, took out his wallet, and counted a few bills into Danny’s hand.

“You get anywhere on that disability thing?” Danny asked.

“Sent it again.”

“They lose it?”

“Said there was a page missing.”

Danny shook his head. He counted out the change, then added another five.

“Next time.”

“I got it.”

“I know.”

Art looked at the money for a moment, then tucked it away.

“Appreciate it.”

“Get back in there. They’ll take your chair.”

They got out. Art went ahead while Danny stood beside the passenger door. He was thirty-nine. He’d been having versions of that conversation since he was eighteen, usually beside a car that needed something. He could make a few bucks, help a guy out, get through the week. When he’d started, most of his customers had wanted to get high before going somewhere. More of them wanted to get through a night now.

Inside, somebody cheered at the television.

He shut the passenger door and went back in.

Walt looked up from behind the bar.

“Don’t let him smoke that shit by my door.”