Read by Silas Hawkins
We were fifteen years old and we didn't have enough grey matter between us to form one small but sensible idea. We were dumber than the day was long, and this was high summer, 1975. Standing at the edge of the field we did our best to conceal the lingering stupidity in a blue haze of cigarette smoke. We didn't want Tom Kavanagh to look into our eyes and see the accumulated nothing.
"Opium is just like turnips or spuds," he said in his Bogman accent. "You weed it, you water it and you walk away from it. There isn't going to be any funny business, because funny business would land the pair of you in reform school …"