Chapter 2Not Picky Just Fighting To Survive

"Country Reset" was the summer’s biggest hit on streaming platforms.

The premise was simple: take entitled suburban children who threw tantrums over home-cooked food, send them to a family-run homestead, and let hard chores and plain country meals cure their arrogance.

The evening my father saw the casting call online, his face lit up with absolute certainty.

"This is it," he said, slapping his knee. "Let the whole country see what a nightmare we're dealing with."

My mother nodded grimly. "A week on a farm with no special treatment will teach him some gratitude."

Under "Reason for Submission", my father typed with heavy, righteous keystrokes: "Pathologically selective eater. Rejects nutritious family cooking. Complete defiance."

My mother added in the notes: "Needs to experience real hunger."

When the news trickled out to the family, the reaction was immediate panic.

Aunt Brenda arrived at our front door the following morning with her hair still clipped up in a towel. She pulled my father into the mudroom, whispering fiercely: "David, listen to me. He isn't being stubborn. He's six years old..." She trailed off, glancing nervously toward the stove. "Maybe... maybe you just need to replace the cast-iron skillets?"

My father frowned. "What's wrong with my skillets?"

Brenda looked at the blackened Dutch oven sitting on the rear burner, shuddered, and swallowed hard. "Cast iron... holds bad energy. Buy an enamel pan, David. For the love of heaven, buy Teflon."

Uncle Ray called next, spending twenty minutes dancing around the point. "Linda, come on. A working farm? Kid’s barely forty pounds soaking wet."

"He's forty pounds because you people have spent six years coddling him!" my mother barked into the phone.

Ray went silent. Through the receiver, I could hear him sigh—the heavy, helpless sound of someone watching a car slide across ice.

That night, the house phone didn't stop ringing. Brenda offered to take me for a month. Ray offered to pay for a meal-delivery service. My father waved them all away with cold resolve: "The more you protect him, the worse he gets."

My mother sealed the deal by paying the non-refundable network registration fee. "It’s done," she said. "No turning back now."

Grandma called late that evening, her voice trembling. "David... are you really sending that baby away?"

"He leaves Friday, Ma. Let everyone see who’s being unreasonable."

A long, devastating quiet hung over the line. Then Grandma whispered, "God forgive you both."

Having failed to stop the train, the family launched an underground relief effort.

The night before the production van arrived, they cornered me in my bedroom like resistance fighters packing rations for someone going behind enemy lines.

Brenda shoved four packs of blueberry muffins into the lining of my backpack: "When the cameras turn off, you eat these, sweetie."

Ray slipped three packages of beef jerky beneath my spare sneakers: "Hide them under your mattress. Don't let your mother see."

Grandma tucked an entire tin of shortbread cookies into my duffel bag, her hands shaking as she smoothed my collar.

Finally, Grandpa knelt down, his expression dead serious. "Toby. When you get out there... don't say anything about what your folks cook at home."

"Why not, Grandpa?"

He hesitated, his jaw tight. "Because... well. They're your parents. Just try to spare them the embarrassment."

I nodded, clutching my bulging bag.

In my six-year-old mind, the logic was crystal clear: If my parents' food was already a test of survival, and my entire family was smuggling emergency rations into my luggage like I was being sent to a prison camp, then farm food had to be pure poison.

I curled up with my backpack that night, bracing myself to starve in the woods.

On Friday morning, the production van pulled into the driveway. My father gave a confident thumbs-up to the camera crew: "Time to show the world what happens when the Picky Prince runs out of excuses."

The camera tilted down to me. I stood on the gravel, silent, hugging my backpack straps.

As the van rolled down the street, I looked through the rear glass. Brenda, Ray, Grandma, and Grandpa stood in a solemn line on the curb, waving like they were watching a soldier ship off to war.

Only my mother and father stood at the front of the lawn, arms crossed, smiling with triumphant certainty, waiting for the cameras to capture my defeat.

They had no clue that life rarely moves in the direction of your ego.