The knife goes through a seedless watermelon the way an argument goes through a lazy afternoon: no resistance, no interruptions, nothing to spit. Somebody at the picnic table always ruins it. This summer the ruin arrives as a warning passed hand to hand across the internet: every seedless bite is a serving of your own impending death, because a fruit without seeds is a future without planting, and a future without planting is a population that eats only what it is sold. Subscribe to eat, the warning goes, or starve on schedule. The charge deserves a trial. Half of it is theater. The other half is the most important story in agriculture, and the theater keeps pointing at the wrong defendant.

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