by Paula R. Stiles

My first year as an agricultural troubleshooter, they posted me out to the Badlands in the Libertarian Anarchy of South Dakota, one of the wilder parts of the Lower 48 Confederation. I got dropped in the deep end my very first case when I found myself on the steps of a dusty old double-wide trailer, trying to convince my first client, a fifty-something Sioux woman with graying hair and dusty overalls named Rita Alvarez, that I wasn’t a jack-booted thug.

“My nephew says I shouldn’t be talkin’ to you confederale types. What did you say you were here for?” She took a drag on her cigarette.

My supervisor had warned me that the independent greenhousers could get hostile if you didn’t approach them in the right way; especially ones living on the former Native American reservations. I held out my hand. “I’m Agro Agent Jim Sherburn, ma’am. I’m just here to check over your work agreements, see if you qualify for any subsidies, anything like that.”

Her frown deepened. I tried another tack and pointed at her cigarette. “Can I try that?” She looked surprised; you didn’t get too many people smoking tobacco these days. She nodded and handed it over. I took a drag and choked. It wasn’t tobacco–it was top-grade marijuana.

She grinned. “Never had one of those before, eh?” I shook my head. “Actually, I have, but I have no sense of smell worth beans and you were downwind.” I took another drag then handed it back to her. “Thanks,” I squeaked through the lungful. “That’s really good stuff. Very smooth. That homegrown?”

She nodded and hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “In the greenhouse out back. I’ve got a permit.”

“Bet you’re keeping that locked down tight so nobody will rip you off.”

She snorted. “You can betcher life on that, son. Nobody gets in there without direct permission. The bees make pretty good guard dogs, I can tell you.” She rubbed her nose. “That’s why I can’t figure where this mold or whatever it is came from. The bees musta carried it in from somewhere.”

Those two puffs were making me mellow. “Is this your own greenhouse or do you share?”

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