Three weeks later, I woke up, looked through my bedroom window, and froze.
My entire front yard was covered in apples.
Hundreds of them.
They covered the grass, the walkway, and my flower beds.
Some had split open when they hit the ground. Others had been crushed into the soil.
For a moment, I could not understand what I was seeing.
Even in the strongest of winds, all the apples from this tree had never fallen.
Maybe just a dozen.
I ran to the backyard to check what had caused this.
I looked up and saw that the tree had been stripped.
Nearly every apple was gone, lying on the ground.
Several smaller branches hung broken.
The grass had torn up where the Apples had fallen forcefully.
Or, more likely, had been plucked and thrown on the ground.
I stood there with my hand over my mouth.
It felt absurd to cry over fruit.
But I was not crying over apples.
I was crying because someone had entered my yard, put their hands on Dean’s tree, and damaged it simply because I had refused to obey.
I walked back toward the front.
Ryan stepped onto his porch carrying a mug of coffee.
“Did you do this?” I asked.
He looked at the apples.
Then he smiled.
“Must’ve been some pretty strong wind last night.”
I stared at him.
There had been no storm. No rain.
Not even a breeze strong enough to move the porch chimes.
Even with the strongest wind, this was something that had never happened.
I looked at how calm he appeared and knew that he wanted me to go berserk.
So, I simply smiled back.
“Must have,” I replied.
His expression shifted slightly, confirming that he had expected my anger.
On the inside, I was seething. On the outside, I retained my composure.
In my mind, I said, “Then tonight… the wind is going to be even stronger.”
I went inside.
I checked the trail camera.
The footage showed everything.
At 12:47 a.m., Ryan climbed over the side fence carrying a fruit picker and two plastic buckets.
He stripped the branches.
He shook smaller limbs until apples fell.
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