Left Alone

Prologue: The Newspaper

Disclaimer: The views expressed in this story are not my own, except for the ones that are. If you think you disagree with me, you may not; if you think I agree with you, I may not. Please tread warily.

Discussing

Adalia picked the plastic-wrapped morning newspaper off the driveway. The headlines were, as usual, obscured by the early dew and she didn't spare more than a glance at them before heading back inside. She didn't generally read it, anyway, that was for the other members of the family. Personally, she thought it was archaic, though she would skim the occasional article they pointed out.

"Thanks, dear," her father said, taking it and stripping the outer plastic before unrolling the paper. Approaching fifty, Daniel Gottfrey was still in good health. "Sit and eat breakfast."

"I'm not really hungry," Adalia replied, sitting and reaching for her coffee. She sipped the sweet drink contentedly as her father rolled his eyes and muttered, "Hyperglycemic."

"I'm toasting an English muffin, want one?" her stepmother, Celia Passeri-Gottfrey asked, slipping the two halves into the toaster.

"I'm really not..."

"You need to eat actual food, especially with all the sugar you put in your coffee. It's not good for you."

"Hm," her father said, sounding surprised.

"Hm?"

He was staring at the headline. "Israel's buying off the rest of the middle east with produce. You remember that thing about new farmland?"

"That new 'fertilizer' they were talking about?"

"They're still saying that here."

"Are they at least still calling it alleged?"

"Doesn't seem like it."

"Honestly, fertilizer," grumbled her stepmother. "As if that's the problem growing things in the desert. And they still don't have a nuclear arsenal too, right."

"Doesn't look like they mention that, so I assume so."

"I swear, they wouldn't have half so many problems if they weren't determined to be all secretive. Adalia, what do you want on your English muffin?"

"Can I have marmalade?"

"Let me see..." she said, opening the refrigeration and examining the jars on the door a moment. "Here you go."

"I don't know, seems like they might be on to something. They're still refusing to share anything about their formula or whatever it is, but they're willing to share the results. Actually...pretty ballsy move here. They're willing to use it on any Israeli land. Heh."

"What?" She took the paper and began to read the article itself. Adalia watched the two of them with sleepy disinterest. "'Willing to use', why would they say... Oh. There's no way that would work."

"It's an improvement over artillery, at least," her father said, sounding amused.

"It's not an improvement if it doesn't work."

"What're you talking about?" Adalia asked.

"It's a land grab...or an attempt at one," her stepmother explained. "They won't share the fertilizer, or whatever it is, on any non-Israeli land, but any states that decide to give land over to Israel..."

"That's clever." She took a bite of marmalade-slathered muffin.

"Except that farming isn't a big economic factor, not in this day and age," her father pointed out. "And that you're dealing with people who'd rather blow themselves to kingdom come than allow Israel to keep the land they've got right now. Even the farmed land was ten...even a thousand times more productive than normal, well, you'd just run into the problem of devaluing whatever staple they're producing so it wasn't worth as much."

"I wouldn't be surprised if that were part of the point," interjected Adalia's stepmother, still skimming the article. "If they're really producing that much more, they'll drive everyone else out of business. Granted, a lot of them don't rely on farming economically but it won't go over well with the farmers themselves. I doubt that'd be enough to convince anyone to hand over the land, of course." She handed the paper back.

"Might even backfire by angering everyone," her father agreed, taking the paper.

"Huh? What would? Who?"

"Brotherkins is up early," Adalia commented, then took another bite.

"What is it? What are you talking about? Is it interesting?" Noah asked. He grabbed the back of a chair and used it for leverage as he bounced up and down, more from morning wakefulness than impatience. At eleven, he was still a ways off from the sleepy lethargy of a teenager.

"Don't thump so much, you'll wake Adrian," his mother said. "You know how cranky he gets."

"But what' you talking about?"

"Israel. They're growing crops."

"Oh." Bored by the answer, he stopped bouncing and went to find the cereal. "I guess that's good," he said, sounding dubious. "Because there are starving people and stuff."

"There's more than enough to feed everyone now. Increasing production makes starvation worse, not better."

Noah paused and turned to look at his father for a moment, waiting for him to laugh. Then, looking somewhat betrayed, he turned to his mother and whined, "Mom, Dad's tricking me again. Tell him he's not supposed to do that."

"As strange as it seems, dear, that's how it works out."

"Then why's Israel doing it?"

"Because they've taken leave of their senses. Perhaps they're hoping to put all the existing Middle Eastern farmers out of business under the assumption having even more impoverished, bitter Arabs there will solve their problems."

"More likely," Celia interrupted, "the entire thing is just some sort of odd stunt, and something more sensible will eventually come out a few months from now."