Kira is not, actually, a one-man weed delivery service. He helps Mark grow it, he cuts and dries it, he smokes it--and most people come over to take what they want, when they want it.

The Mill just happens to be on his way out of town. He keeps waiting for the peaches to go off season, and until they do, he's out with a bucket to stock up. It isn't even really about the mash anymore, isn't really about better tasting moonshine. If he can stock up the clinic with the pure shit that runs off the top, why not give it that extra kick?

He should have Sam make a sign for the house, We Have The Shit For What Ails You. Almost feels like home, a little less magic and no spectacle.

Prepared to stop in on the way out or back, depending, the familiar smell applauds his timing. Kira shoves the door open with his back, slipping inside with his supplies for the hike.

"Happy mid-Autumnal holiday," he says, digging in his pockets for the homemade envelope. "Little bird told me you might need a refill."