"Man, I wish I had your immune system," Wichita declares, almost reaching something of a louder shout in her envy. She grins, loose and relaxed and comfortable - all new things for her these days - and offers Santana the first sip. It seems polite, or whatever.

She'll be distracting herself momentarily with the joints the bag has to offer, seeing as how she rolled them herself earlier. "Now, this is quality shit," she adds, by way of a disclaimer. "I'm not lying when I say this is Hollywood, grade-A stuff."