Kids

They rode their bikes on his lawn; at sunset, the tires deflated and would not take air. They tore his prize roses from the bushes as vandalism and as tokens of their affection; at sunset, the skin on their fingertips would blister as if burned and turn bright red. They stole the vegetables from his garden, eating some and smashing the rest in the street; at sunset, their gums would swell and their jaws would ache (beyond the reach of most common pain medicine). "I know it's you," Darby whispered. "You've done something." Her husband slipped a hand around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. "It's all temporary," he responded gently. "Just a little something to make them think, those meddling kids."