It was a dark and misty morning, the kind that’d be called warm in the winter and cool in the summer. All the cars on the street were covered in dew, and inside they were just warm enough to be comfortable. It was as if the world was still in bed.
The stillness was broken by a car door opening. It was a compact, sensible car, only a few years old. The man who opened the door was unremarkable for the neighborhood; he lived alone; he had a college degree; he owned a car that he primarily used for commuting.