There she was, standing over a fresh dog poop, looking down upon a thin strip of sidewalk grass along a quiet suburban road holding her only bag, bulging and tied off. The Rhodesian Ridgeback at the end of the leash, quite unfortunately, just unloaded an unexpected second helping.

To leave or not to leave, that is the question that I ask of Steve. Maybe she has a favorite uncle named Steve, I don’t know. It rhymed. Is there anyone in America who doesn’t know someone named Steve?

It doesn’t matter.

Regardless, she is faced with a conundrum.

You found a small stash on the bathroom floor of a bar where only 7 dwellers are currently posted up. You scan the room, concluding that 6 of them are potential contenders. The nugs are juicy. Do you announce to the patrons of Patron that one of them has potentially lost their imperative sack, or do you hightail it out of the parking lot and fill your coughers? You examine the motley crew for bloodshot eyes while the dank scent effervesces through the pants pocket to the nostrils like a trail from Pepe Le Pew’s tail.

It is as if the universe itself is checking your pulse to determine if the moral compass is deserved of her positive karma, and worthy of continuing to inhabit her fruitful loins of perfect symmetry. We have, at least once in our lives, been apprised to this test.

You clutch the bag and address this reckoning by announcing to the entire venue that someone has lost their weed and you are ready to bestow it to the rightful owner. A man comes to you and admits that he, indeed, had dropped the bag and hadn’t noticed until that moment upon realizing that his pocket is empty. He takes the Cannabis gratefully. He offers to smoke a bowl with you outside, to which you politely accept. You have made a new friend. His name is Steve.