Jonesy tore through the weeds and grass, ripping up handfuls of clovers and soggy dirt in a frantic search for any trace of the mushroom.
He wrenched at roots, tearing his fingernails in his desperate search. He was rapid, frothing, a fiery ache in his stomach at the desire to experience the unmitigated euphoria offered by the fungi.
He didn’t give two shits about Mark; the idiot just couldn’t stomach the pressure. Jonesy had barely batted an eyelid when he’d seen his friend shrivel to a corpse and turn to dust before his eyes.
All he wanted was another taste.
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