The overriding need to get the pot consumed their every thought and stifled their need to be undiscovered.
Hell, it didn't matter anyway, they were the only potheads around these parts anyway, and they wouldn't get killed over one tiny plant, that's for sure.
He watched the centipede return to the ground and they approached the feast before them.
He noticed the smell, sort of pungent, but not too overpowering.
The pressure on his shell was immense, almost crushing it, but the leaf was acting as a cushion, softening the affect of the danger. Man, if he, a snail had wings, right now he would be flying.