Apple Monster stood at the base of the tree and looked up. Black lines crawled across the lowest branches now, thick as his thumb. Three weeks of waiting had brought him here — to the moment when hoping stopped working. The ants owned the trunk. They owned the roots. Now they owned the air. He had brought the red can this time. It sat on the stone bench where he'd spent every evening for three weeks, watching the darkness spread. The bench had been his grandfather's favorite place to rest after harvesting apples. Now it held poison instead of peace. Apple Monster picked up the can. His hand shook as he read the label. The tree's bark was so thick with ants he couldn't see wood anymore. Just movement. Just hunger. The spray would kill them. It might kill the tree too. He pressed the nozzle. White mist shot out and covered the lowest branch. Ants fell like rain. He kept spraying until the can sputtered empty, until his eyes burned, until he couldn't tell if he was saving the tree or watching it die. The choice was made. There was no more waiting.