When the high was gone, Joe gathered as many seeds as possible, being careful not to take any to delay his work. He ripped multiple ferns out of the ground, until he had give or take fifty seeds. He put them in his jeans pockets, not minding dirt or pulp or bugs. Life would be worth living if he could feel this way at least once a month.

Now, at thirty, during the few public events that Joe had done, he spoke slowly and confidently about things like man’s need to conquer mystery. The reason humans existed was that the universe longed to be understood. People were naturally fact-gathering, pattern-understanding, relentless creatures. He liked to say things like “The most noble undertaking a person can take on is adding to the greater bubble of human knowledge.” And that was why the doors should be explored and taken seriously. It was in the same lineage as why men went to the moon, why we scaled Everest. Eventually we’d be able to catalog every living thing in the oceans’ depths. It was an approximation each time, but even the most incredulous person listening to him seemed to want to believe him. That was what people wanted to be sold in every venture, Joe would think while looking at the audience with their wide eyes and slightly opened mouths, a greater purpose.

The Joes called the seeds they sold “acre.” Some people synthesized them into a drug that they called “CC,” short for “cash crop.” Other names were “cereal” and “slip.” There was a popular rap song that called it “kino”: Dropped some kino / saw time and space / and my baby mama’s face. It was not a great song, but enough people liked it to constantly debate whether kino was CC or shrooms or MDMA. It was popular enough that the Joes could see their empire in the distance: a front organization of billionaire expeditions that went through official government channels, brief side trips to gather enough seeds to continue making acre, and incredible markups on both revenue streams.

Monetary donations to the churches associated with the doors would be handled by the rich people, and each church quietly had asked for a small percentage of acre. Most didn’t take it recreationally, but as part of their church’s most sacred rituals.

Ayanna’s father had already received his cut. He was weighing the responsibilities he felt as one of the church elders to initiate his daughter firmly into the faith, and a parent’s hesitation of wondering what would happen if his ex-wife found out that he had given this to one of their teenage daughters. They spoke regularly, they had to, but every conversation was seeped in the molasses of all the things they were keeping from each other. Even when they were together, though, being open and direct with each other had always been their biggest problem.