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I wouldn’t call the green a poison green— it’s several shades removed from Mr. Yuck, and over that’s a less-than-shiny sheen; the way unpolished mangoes often look. I waved away the warning signs— the clutched snakeskin around a lower branch, the fact that not one fallen apple had been touched by birds who should’ve called the fruit their snack.

The taste surprised; no bite like you’d expect from Day-Glo colored treats. Instead a spurt of liquid that had ripened to collect flavors surrounding it —sunbeams, the surf— and turn them into crème brulée. My breath and lips soon burned. I knew I’d savor death.