博客來The morning mist clung to Weed Mountain like a lazy houseguest refusing to leave. The valley below was bathed in the soft glow of early sunlight, but there was something off about the scene-something too magical, even by Shady Grove’s recent cosmic standards. George T. Hawkins sipped his coffee from the rickety porch of his log cabin, staring out at what had once been ordinary, if not entirely normal, Appalachian scenery. Now? Cosmic cannabis trees glistened on the horizon like they’d been doused in stardust, their leaves shimmering in colors George hadn’t even known existed.
＂Mornin’, George!＂ a familiar voice hollered up the dirt path. Jeb, George’s cousin and frequent accomplice in all things weird,
appeared over the hill, grinning like he’d just seen a ghost that owed him money. ＂You’re not gonna believe what’s happenin’ down by Old Man Johnson’s creek!＂
George, ever wary of the ridiculousness that his cousin could conjure at the best of times, raised an eyebrow. ＂If it’s more floatin’ cows, Jeb, I’m not sure I’ve got the energy today.＂
