We stop in front of a massive tree. “This is the entrance to the dorms,” she says, running her fingers lightly over the trunk. To my surprise, the tree splits up the middle, opening to reveal an elevator.

“How did you do that? Does the tree recognize your fingerprints?” We step through the opening.

She laughs. “No. Keystone doesn’t allow biometrics. There’s a button on the ground next to the tree that opens the doors. I stepped on it while you were watching my hands.”

“I guess I have a lot to learn.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get you up to speed.” She presses the letter D on the panel inside the elevator, and we descend below the earth—I have no idea how far.

“What are your adoptive parents like?” she asks.

“They’re farmers who make and sell organic jams, but, like I said, I never fit in. I was always in trouble—I’ve been stealing for as long as I can remember. I can’t help it.” I conjure my real mother’s acting lessons to deliver the lies. “They didn’t know what to do with me, so I made it easy on them and disconnected. They won’t miss me. They’re probably relieved.”

“That’s so sad,” Rayelle says. “You must be lonely.”

“I am,” I admit, and it’s a relief to tell the truth for once. “It’s like I just got to camp and I’m counting down the weeks until I go home, but then I realize I don’t have a home anymore.” My voice cracks.

Putting her arm around me, she squeezes my shoulders. “Don’t worry. We’re your family, now. This will feel like home in no time. You’ll see.”

She sounds so genuine my throat aches. I wish I could tell her everything, could reveal myself to this girl who, in another life, could have true friend potential. But it’s impossible.

“Thank you.” Smiling, I wipe away a tear. “I hope so.”

“I know so.”

The elevator doors open, and we step into a greenhouse with high glass ceilings and a scaffold system of bright, white lights. Rows of plants are lined up in black barrels. It smells of damp earth, life.

“What is this place?” I ask, putting the past behind me, where it belongs.

“It’s the grow house and the dorms. There are vaults that store every kind of seed in existence, and the weather changes in each corridor to mimic actual climates. The first-year dorms overlook Brazilian sugarcane fields, second-year is China rice terraces, and our rooms are in California—strawberries and oranges. Next year, we’ll be in the Netherlands—tomatoes and chilies. Our wing smells like orange blossoms. It’s my favorite.”

She points out each farm as we walk through the glass hallway that forms a circle around the grow house, separating the dorms from the crops, our footsteps echoing on the bamboo floors.

“Keystone is completely self-sustaining. We can grow anything,” she says. “And survive if we have to.”

“It’s beautiful,” I say, in awe that a secret of this magnitude exists.