The street was nice, with clean sidewalks, cozy houses, abundant trees and shrubbery, and dim lights where families watched TV.
It was like the street where he grew up. Only his parents were not like others: after lights out, they insisted he do things to them with his mouth and hands. Waiting for whispered voices, he would watch the streetlamps flicker from his bedroom window.
Parking beneath the umbrage of a leafy oak, he moved swiftly through the shadows, placing small packets at the foundations of each house.
Driving away, he pressed the remote and waited for the street to erupt.