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men to tend to a marijuana garden of more than 1,500 plants. The two survivors told police that Mike had recently changed their work agreement and told them he could no longer afford to bring them food, or gas for the irrigation truck, and that they’d have to water the plants by hand. The men had balked at the new conditions, and found their way to a phone, where they called someone to come pick them up. When Mike found out, they said he returned with a gun and opened fire.
    A man was dead, another injured, and Mike was in jail. Fear, sadness, anger—so many emotions bubbled up inside Emma. She felt a lump in her throat, and her eyes started to burn, but she fought back the tears, and the urge to go running to Ethan. After all, one of her coping mechanisms during times of crisis was not to talk. She had learned long ago to keep her stories to herself.
    It wasn’t until after Ethan’s friend left that Emma pulled her boyfriend aside and told him the news.
    â€œThere was an incident involving my brother Mike,” she said. “I don’t know if it’s true or not, but according to the reports, there was some kind of fight that had to do with plants or supplies, and one guy was shot and killed.”
    â€œOh my god, I’m so sorry,” Ethan said, as he enveloped her in a giant hug.
    Like seeds sown in a garden long ago, the roots of this story about growing up in marijuana culture began years back, during a winter rainstorm in the hills of Southern Humboldt.
    *  *  *
    It was February 1987.
    â€œThe baby is coming!” she hollered.
    She had long dark hair and a childlike face. Her name was Linda Rivas, but she’d called herself Sage ever since she met a shaman in Harvard Square years earlier who told her she should change her name, go west, and join the Rainbow Tribe. Sage had already given birth twice, and knew it was time, even before the pressure began to come in those rhythmic waves known as contractions.
    â€œHey guys! It’s coming now!”
    The baby’s father came running. His name was Stephen Frech. He and Sage had met a few years earlier while she was living in the Resting Oak Village, a settlement of old vacation cabins on the Eel River. Frech was a short, stout man with an enormous curly red beard. He looked as though he hailed from the Hobbits’ Shire. In reality, he was a Volks­wagen mechanic from rural New Jersey who was known around Southern Humboldt as EZ Out, after his special method for popping windshields out of cars. His technique involved sitting in the driver’s seat and pushing against the glass with his stubby legs until the window popped out with a satisfying crack.
    EZ Out set Sage up in the bed next to the woodstove in the living room and rubbed her back, while word was sent out to contact the midwife. Since there was no phone line in the house, someone had to drive to the top of the dirt road, a few miles away, to get enough of a connection on the CB radio to let the midwife know the baby was on its way.
    As the hours passed, the rain fell steadily and the contractions came harder and faster. A small crowd gathered in the living room to witness the baby’s arrival, but still there was no midwife.
    When it became obvious the baby was coming, midwife or not, a small power struggle ensued between EZ Out and the unborn baby’s godmother, Tie-Dye Debrah, over who was going to catch the newborn as it entered the world. When the moment finally came, in front of a warm fire, surrounded by loved ones, a baby girl was born. Her father and godmother still hadn’t settled who would hold her first and started pulling on her.
    â€œWait a minute!” her mother wailed. “Stop! The cord is still attached!”
    When the umbilical cord was cut, the newborn was wrapped in a tie-dye rainbow blanket. She was bald and breathtakingly innocent. Her parents named her Emma Rosa.
    As for her last name, around the time of her