Being told to go home prickled the skin on the back of his neck. So much for Hudson's claim earlier that if he was too high he'd get tucked in — apparently instead he was getting kicked to the curb. And he wasn't even high, properly — buzzed, at best. The pleasant tinglng that had been all over his skin had ground down to something more like static; a layer of invisible wool all over.

"We haven't even properly had it once," he contended, petulant. "Your rules don't make any sense. I can drink whatever I like and you'll fuck me to next Tuesday, but two hits on a joint and the whole day's ruined?" Two was perhaps a bit of an understatement, but he didn't remember how much he'd actually had and it suited his illustration better to round down. Besides, the number of times he'd inhaled really wasn't the point — the point was that he was not that high. Was this still about making informed choices, or was this disconnected? Because if so, it was also a little offensive that Hudson apparently thought the slightest whiff of anything other than tobacco was going to render him entirely senseless when it came to matters of consent. He was an adult; he knew what he was getting himself into, and he knew his own limits when it came to these things.

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