Snuff

It was an old, eight-hundred square-foot house near a landfill on the edge of town. Two college boys lived there, friends of a friend of Rock's, Bob Holtz, who covered the Razorbacks for the paper. Rock and Bob had spent the night, Rock on a couch in the filthy den.
Rock awoke shortly after Bob, just past dawn on a game-day Saturday in fall. He noticed at first that he had three fresh cans of Copenhagen snuff he attempted to hide the night before around the cushions of the couch where there were a wad of towels he'd formed into a pillow. Later he would wonder why the snuff was there at all. He had broken that thirty-five year habit several years before. Nevertheless, hiding the cans from Bob and their hosts remained important, so he stuffed them into the front pockets in the jeans he'd slept in.
The room smelled of old food, beer, and the blotted layer of newspapers and dirty clothes spread throughout. Neither of Bob's friends were up, and Bob suggested he and Rock leave immediately. Rock agreed, and rode away in Bob's car past the landfill, into which he tossed an old insulin syringe he found in his pants.