After listening to some music and meandering through some online videos, Stan mentioned that his dad left money for them to order pizza.

He was not oblivious to Kyle's discomfort. "Is that okay?" He asked with concern.

"Sure."

"I can get something else if you think you'll get a panic attack."

"I won't."

"Okay." Stan perused the menu. "What do you want on it?"

"Whatever's the most plain."

"That would be cheese."

"Okay." Kyle's last reply was tinged with an edge of impatience.

Stan did not get the basis of Kyle's issues with food and he doubted he ever would. It didn't even seem to fall along the usual dietary guidelines like calorie count or fat content because Kyle had refused to eat some widely considered diet food, like lettuce. Stan had gotten the impression he was not supposed to ask, anyway.

"I'll go see if Dad wants any," Stan said. He felt a little guilty for his relief that he got to take a break from his estranged friend.

He hiked over to the barn, but before peeking in to see if his dad was inside, he searched his pocket for his lighter only to find his coat suspiciously empty of it, though he managed to dig a loose cigarette from it. "Goddamnit," he muttered. Stan debated whether it was worth it to sneak back to the house for some matches.

"Need a light?"

A man in an ash gray suit held out an ornate silver lighter.

"Sure," Stan asked. "My friend doesn't approve of me smoking, so he decided to be a dickweed and take my lighter." And Kyle had the nerve to accuse Stan of dragging him down. At least Stan wasn't afraid of lettuce.

He held his cigarette out, but the man instead placed the lighter in his hand.

"You can keep it."

"Uh, thanks." Stan lit his cigarette. "Are you here to see my dad?"

"You mean Randy Marsh?" The man grinned in a completely horizontal line, without the appearance of an upturned lip. "He's a tough customer. Everyone else on this road is selling their property because the farmland just isn't worth anything anymore. Your father is the only holdout."

"He seems to be growing okay," Stan said. "But then, people might just like his weed because he gives it out for free half the time."

"Generous of him," the man commented. "Unfortunately, it's a poor business plan, and he'll be lucky to last the year."

"Couldn't happen fast enough for me or my sister. We both hate it here."

"I can understand that. Farms might seem ideal for older folks, but the young want more from the world than rows of plants. If I were in your shoes, I might be tempted to burn the whole place down."

Stan let out a polite chuckle, though he knew better than to mention that he had that same thought many times over. His father's shitty venture deserved to fail. He had no right to take Stan away from his friends and his normal life. Stan needed to mellow out, and the cigarette had not done its usual job in doing that. A teary anger clogged in his throat, and when Stan (stupidly) tried to clear it, it elicited a harsh cough.

"Well, I've got a tight schedule, so I'd better be going," the man said. "Good to meet you, Stanley."

I never gave him my name, Stan thought. But, duh, it would be pretty easy to figure out as Stan had already confirmed he was Randy Marsh's son. He gazed at his new acquisition: the ornate silver lighter. At first it had looked dark and sooty, but once the sun hit it, it gleamed with a dark reddish hue.

Kyle suppressed his instant nervousness. Pizzas were among his most detested food. As a general rule, the more ingredients any food had, the more hands would have touched those ingredients to make it. Add to that it basically came from a restaurant and assembled by minimum wage workers, Kyle did not have a lot of trust in any takeout pizza being clean.

Kyle picked the slices that had the most crust and tried to touch the pizza as little as possible.

"So," Randy asked in his buddy-buddy tone, "do you think Stan needs to be on medication?"

Kyle glanced around, expecting to find someone else materialize at the table, until he realized Randy had directed that question his way. "Why are you asking me?"

"Because you, uh, know this stuff?"

Stan had paused to pinch at his nose. "For the last fucking time, Dad, I don't need pills. And stop badgering Kyle about his medication."

"It was your mother's idea," Randy said defensively.

"I know that."

"She said you're depressed," Randy insisted, soldiering on with the topic. "Are you depressed?"

And Kyle thought his own dad was tactless.

"No!"

Randy turned to Kyle. "Is he depressed?"

The dream from the night before lingered in Kyle's mind. Someone would have to be depressed to want to burn their arms with a cigarette lighter, right? But telling Stan's father that seemed tantamount to a betrayal. He hesitated too long for Stan's taste, because Stan gave an outraged, "Dude!"

"He says he isn't," Kyle finally answered.

"I'm fucking right here!" Stan yelled. "Why are you guys so determined to find something wrong with me?"

Randy had enough awareness to look chastened. "Your mother-"

"That's her problem. If she wants pills so much, why doesn't she take them herself? Does she think I'm that much of a pushover? I'm not letting her push happy pills on me so she can join some trendy support group for mothers of troubled kids. I can handle my problems myself. I'm not some weakass who needs medication as a crutch."

Kyle had yet to hear evidence of this trend of parents pushing antidepressants on their kids. As far as he knew, he was the only one who recently gotten on medication. The extreme example of Tweek's parents didn't really count. Kyle also did not like the way that Stan immediately discounted the possibility that his mother might actually really be worried. Kyle could see that she was. She might be mistaken in what was wrong with Stan, but her worry was genuine.

Stan caught his worried stare and misinterpreted it as Kyle joining in the conspiracy. "I'm fine. Whatever my parents said, it's not true."