The men and women who picked oranges schlepped their buckets and ladders and stuffed into several vans. The sky above, still written in night’s glittery signature, bannered them for miles to the day’s waiting grove. Upon arriving, a pair of workers sighted the Apple Painters, busily staining orange peels with candlewax redness. Though promptly mobbed from the fields, the Painters’ mischief proved substantial—a quarter of the team’s stippled stipends, ruined, without reason or rhyme in their wake.



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