FADE IN: EXT. OAK CREEK ESTATES, VARIOUS, DAWN A sprinkler ticks across a lawn so green it looks painted. The water catches the first light and throws it in slow arcs across the grass. We move through the neighborhood. Every house is the same house wearing a different color. Every driveway holds a car that was chosen to look like every other car. American flags hang from porch brackets at regulation intervals. A robin pulls a worm from a flower bed. The sound of a lawnmower somewhere. The sound of nothing else. This is Oak Creek Estates. Northern Virginia. Summer. The American dream at industrial scale. INT. AVERILL HOUSE, KITCHEN, OAK CREEK ESTATES, 6:47 AM TOM AVERILL (47) stands at the stove in a faded University of Virginia t-shirt and pajama pants, pushing scrambled eggs around a pan with the absent competence of a man who has made this breakfast four thousand times. He is lean, unremarkable, the kind of face that disappears in company photographs. His hands are steady the way hands are steady when they have never been asked to do anything important. The kitchen is lived in. A family calendar on the fridge with color coded entries. A permission slip pinned under a magnet from the Outer Banks. A fruit bowl with two bananas going brown. Down the hallway, framed family photographs line both walls. LINDA AVERILL (45) moves through the space with the efficient grace of a woman who has optimized every square