Two A.M. The farm family is roused inside the remote cottage by the sounds of running engines and the glare of headlights. Father, mother and three children fuse in the living room. A banging fist. The farmer turns the knob and a tsunami of soldiers flows in and around the family knot. Others move to the kitchen, the hall pantry, throwing open doors.
“The law says no more than seven days of food. I could arrest you for domestic terrorism.”
The children, now crying, cling to their parents. Soldiers box up food and shuttle the boxes to waiting trucks.
“Farming is our livelihood. It’s what we’ve done for generations. What are we to eat?”
“The law says no more than seven days of food.” Soldiers exit. The food is gone. Silence, except for children’s sniffles. Father’s eyes are hollow. Children’s eyes are fearful. Mother’s eyes are knowing.
Hidden away in the rafters, there are strings of jerky, dried beans, fruits and vegetables. Mother is both squirrel and ant. Her family will be fed.