I crossed to the island with the villagers themselves. Their annual migration across the straits in small boats was set to happen only a week after my arrival, and I had been able to wheedle a place for myself on a trawler. Summer had barely begun, but the air was still and hot, even twenty miles from the mainland. We tied up at the concrete piers just inside the storm barriers and just outside the sonic fence.

Through the blur of the fence’s field distortions I could see the crop drifting and hovering back and forth over the grassy expanse of the island’s western half. Mosquitos eight to ten feet from proboscis to cercus, abdomens bloated with precious hallucinogenic mucus. The harvest was going to be something to see. And more importantly, my senior thesis film was going to be magical.

I checked my camera for the hundredth time that morning, and stood in line with the villagers before the portal. This was going to be an amazing day.