Pamela stared at the television, her brow furrowed as the commercial’s cheerful voice chirped, “Try the new apple-flavored milk for the holidays! It tastes like a warm Dutch apple pie. Mmmmmm.” The screen glowed with the image of a neon-green liquid swirling in a glass. There was something off about the color, something that unsettled her in ways she couldn’t explain.

“Why is it so green?” Pamela muttered, the question more to herself than to Terry, who lounged on the couch. “It should be cinnamon brown. This feels… wrong.”

Terry shrugged, forcing a casual tone. “It’s just marketing. Kids love colors. Apple pie, green milk, whatever gets them drinking healthy stuff.” But his fingers twitched against the fabric, betraying a curiosity he tried to suppress. “Honestly, I kind of want to try it… just to see.”

Pamela’s unease grew. “Not before our flight,” she insisted. “We’re leaving today. No taste tests, no weird green liquids. It’s not worth tempting fate.” She tried to laugh, but the sound died in the tense silence.

Their flight to the islands was uneventful, but Pamela couldn’t shake the sense that something was waiting back home. The green milk commercial replayed in her mind like a bad song she never wanted to hear. She watched Terry for signs—was he more distant, or was it just her nerves?

Weeks passed, their vacation marked by restless sleep and quiet arguments. When the plane finally touched down, the airport was a graveyard—deserted, lights flickering, an unnatural hush.

Milk jugs lay abandoned across the terminal floor, each surrounded by a sickly green puddle. Pamela’s chest tightened. Terry reached for her hand, but his touch seemed colder than she remembered.

“Do you see that?” Pamela whispered, her eyes wide. The puddle rippled, and shapes began to emerge—small, slick bodies, shifting and multiplying. Frogs. Lizards. Thousands of them, scattered in places where people should have been.

Mary, trailing behind, froze in terror. “There are more,” she stammered, voice trembling. Everywhere they looked, the creatures slithered or hopped, filling the empty space.

A man ran toward them from afar, waving his hands. Pamela listened, unsettled by his words. Flickering lights outside revealed more green puddles and shifting forms. She looked at Terry for comfort but saw a strange, reptilian glint in his eyes.

Mary wrapped her arms around herself, shrinking back as the stranger leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You haven’t touched the milk, have you?”

Terry shook his head, but Pamela hesitated, recalling the faint, sticky residue on the airport railing she’d gripped earlier. Her hands tingled, and a cold sweat broke out along her neck. She tried to speak, but her tongue felt heavy, her words failing her.

The man’s expression shifted from suspicion to pity. “It’s not just the milk. It’s everywhere now. On the air, on the things we touch. The change is coming, and there’s nothing left to do but accept it.”

As the distant croaking grew louder, Pamela watched Terry’s fingers curl awkwardly, his knuckles bending at unnatural angles. A flicker of green danced across his skin. Mary gasped, stumbling backward as scales erupted along her wrist. Outside, the empty airport was alive with motion—transformation.

Pamela’s vision became indistinct, her surroundings merging into tones of green and darkness. She imagined an environment devoid of human activity, where only resilient species remained due to their capacity for adaptation. With a composed perspective, she recognized this state as a form of progression rather than conclusion. As elements of her previous identity dissipated, she acknowledged a significant insight: the core issue extended beyond the subject of milk and instead concerned the willingness to embrace change and explore alternatives.

Outside, the sun rose slowly, casting its pale light over a new world—silent but for the chorus of frogs and lizards, and the echo of humanity lost in the green.