“Sometimes our greatest mistakes are our best achievements,” the man with the Karl Marx beard tells me. We’re on a road. Smoke rises from the hood of the car; the fumes wafting in, choking me. He picked me up a few miles outside of Boroughs and offered me the red pills. A sack of cannabis sits on his lap, but he ain’t sharing. Men like him never share. They take and take from the earth, but never both to share with the lowlies like me. “What’s that?” I say. The wind’s making it hard to hear anything. “I didn’t hear that last part?” “Eh?” he mutters, turning his head to me. The fluff of his beard is angled as the wind blows through it.…