He stood up, his joints popping. His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from his sister: "You alive out there?"
"Why now?" Q asked. His tongue felt like a warm potato. shrooms q hussie
The rain over the Pacific Northwest had the quality of a held breath—soft, endless, gray. Q, whose real name was Quincy but who hadn't answered to that in years, sat cross-legged on a rotting log. In his palm rested three small, golden-capped mushrooms, their stems bruised a deep, oceanic blue where he'd pinched them. He stood up, his joints popping
The first twenty minutes were just the forest getting louder . A slug traversing a fern leaf sounded like wet canvas tearing. His own heartbeat became a subwoofer, thumping a rhythm he almost recognized. Then the trees began to breathe. His tongue felt like a warm potato