I was on my nightly patrol — feeling easier to anger than usual — when I smelled the cure to all my fucking problems.

I tracked the earthy smell all the way to the source: pressed snugly between the plump of her lips. A stranger who was getting high on a roof of an apartment building.

I glowered down at her — not because the woman was smoking, but because I wasn’t smoking. And if I couldn’t smoke, neither could she.

“That’s one year of jail right there,” I grumble.