Carefully, Chester, a burly fellow aged about forty-five years, walked towards the anthill. It was a hot, humid, summer afternoon and he had gone into the woods, a long distance from
his home in a small Australian town, to look for red ants – those tiny creatures who held the antidote to his affliction. On reaching the large anthill, Chester bent down to examine the ants’ nest; he peered into the nest expectantly but soon straight-
ened up, disappointment written all over his face – for the ants were black, not red as he had expected. But Chester’s deter- mination was unshaken, and he continued his search through
the woods, the search for red ants. It took him several minutes, but ultimately Chester came upon a red ants’ nest. Relieved, he stood, arms akimbo, watching the red insects busily going about their business. He watched them as they pushed and pulled bits of food into their nest, apparently in preparation for the winter season.