The first time you kill someone, you're not there to witness it. You're in town because you have to be, because you have a tiny little risk to eliminate that you overlooked at first. But you're not even from the same city. That's as it should be though, because you can't have a connection to him. He laughed at you, but he's laughed at a lot of people, and you've got no reason to care about a life like his, after all, he wouldn't have cared if he'd accidentally drowned you, either. You and Carl, you're worlds apart. You grow the botulinum yourself, and the neighbour's cat dies a sad, painful and comparably swift death as you test it before injecting it into the boy's medicine.

There's some satisfaction to be gained from reading the paper the next morning, smiling to yourself, and pretending, when people talk about his death at school, never to have even heard his name. A part of you wonders if somewhere out there, another boy like you sees what happened, and will one day come looking for who took Carl's shoes, and you smile silently at the thought of a message in a bottle, one genius seeking another in oceans and oceans of people who don't think.
Maybe you'll send a few more, just to be safe.