Frameshift: This and That

Frameshift: "This and That"



TEASER

EXT. KEENE-NIGHT

High over a small city. A smattering of yellow lights, cars
rush along streets. Serene, quiet, this high up.

SIRENS WAIL.

MONTAGE

MOS. An alley. A HOBO smashes an anti-theft cap off a bottle.

MOS. An ATM. A MAN folds his money, retrieves his card, turns
away-- WHAM, into a THIEF's fist.

MOS. A sidewalk. A JUNKIE points a gun at a YOUNG MAN and
WOMAN. He rants, and they hand over wallets, jewelry. He
yells louder, thrusts the gun at the woman's earrings. The
young man sidesteps between.

BLAM!

INT. JOSH'S HOUSE-JOSH'S ROOM-NIGHT

JOSH SHEPHERD snaps upright in his bed. Slumps back onto his
pillow. Stares up at the ceiling, blank, sweating. Glances at
his computer, monitor aglow. IM box with unanswered messages
to "SARAC17"; the clock says 12:15. Back to the ceiling.

...

He sighs and rolls out of bed.

EXT. STREET-NIGHT

Josh strolls along, eyes rove the area: dark buildings, empty
streets, no cars. Nothing at all.

Josh stops and leans against a building. Closes his eyes.

EXT. ALLEYWAY-NIGHT (VISION)

SERIES OF SHOTS

FEET SLIP on old newspapers.

An OLDER MAN, 50-ish, stumbles back against a Dumpster

A MUGGER smacks the man with his gun.

The older man falls to the ground.

EXT. STREET-NIGHT

Josh opens his eyes. Glances left and right before setting
off right, at a sprint, across the street and round a corner.

INT. COHEN'S OFFICE-NIGHT

DR. COHEN sits at a battered secondhand desk, lit by the glow
of a laptop monitor. The room itself is bare and plain. A bit
on the shabby side.

In front of him, a credit card statement. American Express
Centurion card. For Andrew Porter.

Fresh charge, OLHAM'S ARMY SURPLUS & PAWN, for 3500 dollars.

Cohen shifts, takes a thumb drive from a pant pocket. Plugs
it in. The screen flickers, and the page refreshes. The
Olham's charge erased.

Cohen rubs his eyes, then his face, washing without water.
Then he shuts the computer.

Stands up, walks out an open door into--

INT. COHEN'S HALLWAY-NIGHT

Again, plain, bare. White paint gone gray, neglected wood
floors masquerade as mice.

Cohen passes one open door. An OPERATING ROOM, identical in
every way to the one Josh was in.

Cohen turns through another doorway, to--

INT. COHEN'S KITCHEN-NIGHT

More bare plainness. The cupboards are worn and peeling,
couple without doors. The counter linoleum peeled. A mini
fridge and other dorm chef tech congregate near the couple
intact sockets.

Cohen ignores all this and approaches a large chest freezer.
He stops in front of it. Places a hand on the lid. Lifts it.

Inside. AGENT DONAHUE. Dead. Cold. Gray of the apartment's
paint job, still dressed, frost on his skin and suit.

EXT. ALLEYWAY-NIGHT

Josh's sprint drops into a cautious jog the last few feet.
The alley is twenty feet up from a street corner, a maybe ten
foot space between buildings. He stops and edges along the
wall, peers round the corner.

The Mugger rummages the older man's pockets. He pulls a
wallet, shoves it in his own pocket. Digs more.

Josh presses back against the wall, looks up. Closes his eyes
and takes a deep breath. Steps away from the wall and into
the mouth of the alley.

JOSH:
Hey.

Casual. No confrontation. Almost friendly.

The Mugger freezes, spins, and stumbles to his feet.

Josh steps forward, deeper. Into the shadow.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
So what's up? Out for a stroll, saw
this guy, figured you'd grab a
couple bucks?

INT. COHEN'S KITCHEN-NIGHT

Cohen straightens Donahue on a gurney.

EXT. ALLEYWAY-NIGHT

Josh keeps walking. The Mugger raises his gun, points it at
Josh. His hand shakes a bit. Josh grins.

JOSH:
Aw, come on. You and I both know
that's not loaded. If it were,
you'd have just shot him.

INT. COHEN'S BATHROOM-NIGHT

The bathroom's large, formerly elegant. Dingy, broken down,
but with the promise that it's just been neglected and a
little love would bring it right back.

The gurney sits in the middle of the room, empty. Cohen
crouches next to the tub. Donahue's hand hangs out.

EXT. ALLEYWAY-NIGHT

Josh nods at the older man on the ground. Dazed but awake.

JOSH:
I'm Josh, sir. Give me a second,
everything'll be fine.

Josh gets face-to-face with the Mugger. Cocks his head at the
gun, still aimed at him.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
Seriously. It's a revolver. I can
see it's not loaded. Look.

Josh snatches the gun and snaps it open. Turns it round to
display the empty cylinder. Snaps it closed.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
Harmless. Good club, crap gun.

INT. COHEN'S BATHROOM-NIGHT

Cohen balances Donahue's wrist on the edge of the tub. He
reaches up the gurney and takes down a small set of bolt
cutters. Low tech. He fits the blade on Donahue's pinky.

Swallows hard.

EXT. ALLEYWAY-NIGHT

Josh is closer still to the Mugger.

JOSH:
So, it's your lucky day. I helped
you out. Stopped you being stupid.
You don't carry a gun you can't
use. I mean, what if I'm a cop? I
see a gun, shoot first, check your
load later. Dangerous as hell. Now,
what you want to do is go home.
Maybe get a job. Go to school. Not
this. Because you might--

INT. COHEN'S BATHROOM-NIGHT

Cohen stares. Quick, shallow breaths. Clenches his eyes shut.

The complicated sound of bone splintering, flesh tearing. And
a dull plastic THUNK.

EXT. ALLEYWAY-NIGHT

FLASH of WHITE LIGHT.

Josh's hands snap to his head.

JOSH:
ARGH!!!

The gun clatters to the ground. Josh spins away, crouches
low, grunts and moans his only sound.

INT. COHEN'S BATHROOM-NIGHT

Cohen stares hard at nothing. Quick breathes. Eyes shut.

The same complicated noise. Same dull plastic THUNK.

EXT. ALLEYWAY-NIGHT

Josh arches up and yells out loud, eyes screwed shut. He's
not here; nowhere near.

The Mugger stares at Josh. Glances down. Sees the gun. Picks
it up. He begins to edge out of the alley.

Josh drops onto his butt, rocks back and forth, holding his
head, whimpering into his palms.

The Mugger glances between the older man, starting to
straighten and recover, the mouth of the alley. Then at Josh.

He lets loose a sudden and brutal kick to Josh's side. Josh
flops over, curls fetal, head in his crotch.

The Mugger lets loose a flurry of kicks, drops a few whacks
from the pistol in for good measure. He's so into it, he
completely misses the older man, now up and not so old--

Armed with an empty bottle midway through its arc to the back
of the Mugger's head.

CRACK!

Mugger's down for the count. The older man drops what's left
of the bottle, and crouches down to help Josh.

Josh rocks in his fetal cocoon, little moans and groans.

The older man gets his arm around Josh and under an arm, and
hauls him up. Josh obeys on autopilot, eyes blank, jaw slack
focused somewhere else entirely.

INT. COHEN'S BATHROOM-NIGHT

The bolt cutters clatter, land next to an opaque tupperware
dish. Cohen's hand snaps the lid on.

He stands up, tupperware in hand. Sets the dish on the
counter, opens the medicine cabinet.

Inside, more chemistry lab than medicine cabinet. Cohen takes
down a large bottle and a glass beaker. The bottle's label
says sodium hydroxide.

Cohen picks up the tupperware dish, looks away. Ten little
glass TINKS. Fingertips on glass.

Then he picks up the sodium hydroxide, and uncaps it.



END OF TEASER
ACT ONE

INT. ER EXAM ROOM-NIGHT

Josh pulls his shirt on, as the door opens. The older man
from the alley enters.

OLDER MAN:
How're you doing, son?

Josh shrugs. His face is bruised, there's dried blood under
his nose, and he moves slowly. But he's on his feet.

JOSH:
Okay, apparently.

He gestures to an x-ray view box on the wall. Chest x-rays.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
That's supposed to be good.

OLDER MAN:
Ah. You were pretty bad off during
the ride over. Clutching your head.
Sure you're okay?

Josh runs his hand over his face, through his hair.

JOSH:
Yeah, now. Don't know what it was.
24 minute migraine, I guess.
Thanks, by the way.

Josh holds out his hand. They shake.

OLDER MAN:
You helped me out just as much.
Lost my wallet, but the cash was
separate. Replacing cards is easy.
Life, less so.

Josh half laughs.

JOSH:
Yeah, I guess. I'm sorry, I didn't
catch your name, Mr...?

OLDER MAN:
Hackett. Tom Hackett.

JOSH:
Thanks. Mr. Hackett.

OLDER MAN/HACKETT:
Fair trade. Well-- It's late. I
better get going. Do you need a
ride, maybe?

Josh shakes his head.

JOSH:
No, I'm okay. Like to walk.

Hackett nods, and they shake once more; Hackett leaves

The door's barely closed before TOM KINNIT enters the room.
He looks tired, overworked. Clothes wrinkled, little attempt
at looking neat this late.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
Detective Kinnit.

Kinnit looks up. A second before he gets it.

KINNIT:
Josh. Shepherd.

JOSH:
Last I checked.

KINNIT:
Yeah. You're the mugging
witness/assault victim?

Josh nods.

JOSH:
Trouble and me: Peas and carrots.

KINNIT:
You're out awfully late.

Shrug.

JOSH:
Insomnia. My therapist says it
might be related to the amnesia.
Doesn't change my History test
tomorrow, though.

Kinnit gives a vague nod, takes out a notepad. Perches on the
arm of the guest chair.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
So, I thought you were, like, the
major crimes. Kidnapping, murder
and stuff. Right?

Kinnit shrugs.

KINNIT:
Small town these days. Budget cuts.
I'm whatever hits the desk.
Tonight, attempted robbery. So what
do you remember about the guy?

Josh doesn't hesitate.

JOSH:
About five-eight, white, not
tanned. Maybe 20? Like he's a night
guy. Dark hair, eyes. Maybe 165?
Tad underweight. Real nervous, like
it was maybe the first time.
Unloaded gun, but he pointed it, so
it's moot, I guess. Cheap thing,
out of a trunk or pawn shop. Cheap,
ratty clothes. I'd say Wal-Mart or
KMart, if not Goodwill.

Kinnit stares at Josh.

KINNIT:
All that in a few seconds?

Josh shrugs.

JOSH:
Only my long-term memory's crap.
Honestly, I think Mr. Hackett and I
scared him pretty well. If it's his
first time, I doubt he'll go for
two. Just sign on at Burger King or
somewhere. Safer.

Kinnit writes, then pauses.

KINNIT:
Mr. Hackett?

JOSH:
Yeah, the guy who brought me in. He
was getting mugged, I helped out.

Kinnit flips back a page.

KINNIT:
You're the only one I talked to.

Josh frowns.

JOSH:
Huh. You just missed him. He was
here right before you.

KINNIT:
Thought he was the doc. You get his
number? Address?

Josh shakes his head.

JOSH:
Sorry. Didn't think to. He was
older, and the mugger sort of
roughed him up. Probably doesn't
remember much anyway.

KINNIT:
Maybe not. Still, I'll try and find
him. DOL'll have a record. You get
a first name?

JOSH:
Tom. Anywhere from fifty to sixty.
Pretty narrowed range. Easy enough.

Kinnit nods, closes his notepad, stands.

KINNIT:
Yeah, easy enough. You're okay?
(glances at the viewbox)
No breaks or anything?

Josh shakes his head.

JOSH:
Yeah, perfectly healthy. Some
bruises, nothing worse. Good luck.

KINNIT:
You seem to have a bit of it.

JOSH:
Apart from the lost decade, anyway.

KINNIT:
Apart from that. Anyway, thanks,
and I'll call you if we find out
anything.
Also-- We never did get to work on
fleshing out your lost time.
Obviously I can't force you, but, I
mean, ten years is an awful long
time to lose. We might be able to
dig something up.

Josh shuts down. Glances away, seems to shrink up.

JOSH:
Yeah, I'll think about it. I guess
I'm just still settling in.

Kinnit gets the mood. Nods sympathy, pats Josh's shoulder.

KINNIT:
Right. Anyway, you ever get the
urge, I've usually got the time.
Just call, we can get a sketch
going or something. Well-- Guess
I'll get going. Paperwork to do.

JOSH:
Okay. Night, sir.

KINNIT:
Night. You need a ride or anything?

JOSH:
No, I'm okay. Like the walk. Still.
Well lit streets, though.

KINNIT:
Right. Good night, then.

JOSH:
Bye.

Kinnit leaves the room. Josh sighs, rubs his face again.
Takes a quick glance at himself in a steel cabinet. Touches
his nose and winces.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
Damn.

INT./EXT. KINNIT'S CAR/PARK-NIGHT

Kinnit pulls his car into a spot and kills the lights.
Standard police unmarked. Kinnit gets out, leans against a
fender, scans the trees, paths, benches.

Nobody. "Dead of night" for a reason. Kinnit sets off, on the
path around the little pond.

He passes a trash can immediately, stops. Digs in his
pockets, comes out with old gum wrappers, crumpled paper. He
tosses them in the can. Sets off walking again. Perfectly
natural pit stop.

Inside the can: the wrappers and paper. Atop it all, the gift
tag with Josh's fingerprint.

EXT. HOSPITAL-NIGHT

Josh walks out to the curb in front of the hospital, sits
down on a bus stop bench.

A car pulls out of the lot, slows at the exit, stops full.
The window whirs down.

CLAIRE:
Josh?

CLAIRE DAWSON calls from the car window. Josh turns, freezes.

...

JOSH:
Claire?

She nods.

CLAIRE:
Do you need a ride?

Josh opens his mouth; the refusal catches in his throat, is
beat into submission, and--

JOSH:
Yeah. Yeah, that'd be great.

Arises victorious.

INT. CLAIRE'S CAR-CONTINUOUS

Josh shuts the door. Neither say anything for a second. Then--

JOSH:
Thanks. For the ride.

Claire glances at Josh; away. She's different. Less...
Bright, vibrant. Her hair seems lank. Lower key all around.

CLAIRE:
It's no problem. Least I could....

Unsure if it's an allowed topic.

CLAIRE: (CONT'D)
...Do.

Josh slips past it.

JOSH:
Still, thanks. Two thirty in the
morning, you didn't have to.

Claire glances at Josh; quickly away. Her eyes say otherwise.

CLAIRE:
Um... Where do you live?

Josh laughs. The tension relaxes a fraction.

JOSH:
Right. Sorry.

INT./EXT. CLAIRE'S CAR/JOSH'S HOUSE-NIGHT

Claire shifts to park. Neither move for a moment.

Josh moves for the handle. Claire jumps on him, pulls him
into a tight hug.

CLAIRE:
Thank you.

Josh freezes. Again. Finally hugs back very lightly.

JOSH:
You're, uh, welcome.

Claire lets go. Stares at Josh.

CLAIRE:
How did you know? What happened?

Josh looks away.

CLAIRE: (CONT'D)
The police didn't even have a clue.
How could you?

JOSH:
I, uh, got a... Hunch.

CLAIRE:
But from what?

Josh turns back, can't make the eye contact.

JOSH:
Trust me, you wouldn't believe me.

Claire forces Josh to look her in the eye. Tiny smile.

CLAIRE:
Try me.

Josh stares. Shrugs.

JOSH:
Okay. I've got these... Let's call
'em visions? Of stuff. Really
emotional things, mostly. Violent
crime a lot.

Claire stares.

CLAIRE:
Visions?

A tone that sounds like the extension to the Psych ward.

Josh nods.

JOSH:
Visions. Keegan picks you up in his
car, after work at the coffee shop.

Claire stares.

CLAIRE:
You don't know where I work.

Josh shakes his head.

JOSH:
You never told me where you work.
Big difference. You smacked against
his car windows, then he knocked
you out. Then you were in the
testing closet at school. And I
showed up.

Claire's mouth gapes a bit.

CLAIRE:
You're serious.

JOSH:
As a heart attack. Or a serial
rapist/murderer. I saw it all.
The highly emotional and anything
within 20 feet or so. Remote
viewing, says Noah. I just know I
hate it.

CLAIRE:
Why?

Josh shrugs.

JOSH:
Been nothing but bad. Mostly don't
sleep because of it. Can't stop
half of it, anyway. It's torture.

CLAIRE:
But you stop some of it.... You
stopped Keegan.

JOSH:
Yeah.

CLAIRE:
It's a gift.

JOSH:
And a curse.

CLAIRE:
Everything is. But every cloud has
a silver lining.

JOSH:
No, every silver lining's got a
cloud.

CLAIRE:
You wanna trade proverbs all night?

JOSH:
I think it's an idiom.

CLAIRE:
Even so. It's not all bad. It's
good. Weren't for you, I wouldn't
be here. So thanks. Again.

Josh shrugs it off.

JOSH:
Hey, no problem. Apart from, you
know, the veggie Keegan thing.

CLAIRE:
I don't think anybody would hold it
against you.

Her look guarantees she doesn't. Josh half smiles.

JOSH:
Probably not.... You didn't tell
anyone I was around, right?

Claire shakes her head.

CLAIRE:
You asked me not to.

JOSH:
Yeah. Thanks. And this-- the whole
vision thing--

CLAIRE:
Mum's the word.

JOSH:
Thanks.

...

JOSH: (CONT'D)
Well-- Night.

Josh opens the door and gets out of the car. Shuts it.

Makes it a third of the way to the door before--

FLASH OF WHITE.

Josh stops dead and winces, hand to his forehead. He turns
around. Claire's tail lights flash through white to drive.
Josh runs to the car, taps the window. Claire puts it down.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
Think I could get one more lift?

EXT. PARK-NIGHT

The trash can sits still. Kinnit's gone.

A shopping cart with a square wheel RATTLES ALONG.

A HOMELESS MAN in layers pushes it. He stops at the trash can
before Kinnit's. Digs through. Nothing good. On.

Stops at Kinnit's. Digs. Lifts out some things. Newspapers,
and-- Yeah. The print. They sit on top of the mess of cans
and bottles in his cart.

He moves on. Stops at the next. Digs.

EXT. ALLEYWAY-NIGHT

Claire's car slows to a stop, just shy of the corner. The
doors open. Claire and Josh get out.

Josh heads for the corner, peers around the building, up the
street. Cop car. Blue and red swirl off the dark buildings. A
PATROLMAN steps out of the alleyway, radio at his face.

PATROLMAN:
No, sir, nothing. There was anybody
here, they're long gone now.

A pause, incoherent radio speak.

PATROLMAN: (CONT'D)
No, sir, nothing. Just trash.

The radio returns another burst of static words, and the
Patrolman opens the passenger door, gets in. Brake lights,
then a white flare. Brakes off. And gone.

Josh straightens. Looks back at Claire.

JOSH:
Hang out here. Just a few minutes.

Josh rounds the corner. Not five feet before Claire's beside
him-- close, too. Josh glances at her.

CLAIRE:
What?

She's scared. A deaf-blind narcissist could see it.

JOSH:
Nothing.

They reach the alley. Josh stands at the mouth and stares in.

It's just an alley. Dumpster at the end, doors to the two
buildings, strewn papers and spare boxes. Not special.

CLAIRE:
What're you looking for?

JOSH:
I don't know. Something very...
Regrettable? Remorse.

CLAIRE:
Is that what that smell is?

Josh glances at Claire. She glances behind every few seconds.

JOSH:
No, no, that's Jack and Ralph.
Remorse is less wino-y.

Josh catches Claire's glance behind herself again, takes her
elbow, pushes her several steps ahead.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
Trust me, I'll see it coming.

Claire glances past him. The street's pitch beyond. Claire
looks ten feet and a missed Klonopin from a panic attack.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
I promise.

Claire forces her eyes back to the alley.

CLAIRE:
So what does remorse look like?

Josh closes his eyes. Bows his head a bit. His eyelids
flutter. Then they snap open. He sets off for the Dumpster.

JOSH:
Believe it or not--

Josh tosses the lid open, reaches inside.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
A lot like a dumpy little revolver.

He pulls out a revolver. The Mugger's. Crappy and unloaded.

INT. COHEN'S BATHROOM-NIGHT

Cohen sits on the toilet. An old cracked job. Grand in the
60's, past vintage into trash now. Head in hands. His watch
beeps, he looks up. At the counter. Stands and crosses to it.

The beaker's full of a coffee-ish liquid. Cohen's face
tightens, holding his breath. He pours the beaker down the
sink.

Drain gurgles. Cohen gazes down. Ten fingers' worth of bone
hulls. He picks up a pestle from next to the beaker. Swallows
hard. Runs the water and begins crushing.



END OF ACT ONE
ACT TWO

INT. CLAIRE'S CAR-NIGHT

Josh and Claire sit. Josh holds the gun. He stares at it.

Claire frowns.

CLAIRE:
Are you... getting anything?

Josh looks up. Shrugs.

JOSH:
It doesn't really work like that.
Keegan, sort of. I touched a
bloodstain. But, I'd already had a
dream. I think it was mostly me.
Like, PTSD-ish or something.

Claire nods. Looks around.

CLAIRE:
So... What are you doing?

JOSH:
Thinking.

...

CLAIRE:
About?

JOSH:
The guy. He was 20, probably.
Clean, but skinny. His clothes were
ratty, but not homeless ratty. And
he was nervous. Guy just radiated
desperation. Gun's a dead end;
Washington doesn't really register,
and there's no way for me to track
it if they did. But--

Josh looks at Claire.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
You're social, right? Any chance
you're on yearbook?

Claire nods slowly.

CLAIRE:
Yeah. So?

JOSH:
So you keep backlogs, right? At
least a few years?

Claire nods.

CLAIRE:
Of course. But they're locked up in
the school.

Josh shrugs.

JOSH:
That's not a problem.

Claire fumbles for the next excuse. Classic--

CLAIRE:
It's late.

Josh glances at the dashboard clock. 2:10.

JOSH:
Oh, god, I'm sorry. You need to get
home. My bad.

She looks down. Hands knit an invisible bootie in her lap.

CLAIRE:
It's not that. They're out of town.
It's just that--

Josh stares. So he's a deaf-blind narcissist. It happens.

Claire's voice is barely above a whisper.

CLAIRE: (CONT'D)
It's the school.

Her voice cracks over "school". Josh shuts his eyes and nods,
mentally kicks himself.

JOSH:
Right. I'm stupid. Sorry.
Nevermind. Not important.

Josh shakes his head.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
I don't even know what I'm after.
Excedrin Migraine. Let's go.

Claire faces front, starts the car. Hand over the shifter.

She pauses. Doesn't look at Josh. Eyes dead ahead. Jaw tight.

CLAIRE:
Is it important?

Josh is honest.

JOSH:
I don't know. Maybe, maybe not.

Claire nods.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
But you're safe. Period. Keegan's
not there. Even if there was
anything-- I'm dying before you.
And they'd be going with me.

Claire nods. Shifts into drive.

CLAIRE:
That's enough for me.

Josh leans forward to catch her eyes. They're not calm,
they're terrified. But they're firm, bright. Decided.

JOSH:
It's your choice, Claire. You don't
have to. Any doubts, just say so
and it's fine. No problem. Okay? I
can't drag you anywhere.

Claire nods. Presses the gas.

CLAIRE:
It's fine. I'm just not going to go
down that particular hall.

INT. COHEN'S BATHROOM-NIGHT

Cohen leans on the counter. Stares at it.

A surgical kit is laid out in front of him. Scalpels,
scissors, everything the discerning body disposer needs.

Cohen turns, leans back. Stares at the tub.

Donahue's there, same as before. The hands are wedged at his
sides, out of sight. Just grey, no more frosty.

Cohen's gaze shifts to the toilet. The usual stuff. An old
plunger, an empty bottle of drain cleaner on its side.

Cohen glances over his shoulder, at the small bottle of
sodium hydroxide. At the tub with Donahue. The drain cleaner.

INT. HOTEL HALLWAY-NIGHT

Kinnit walks down the hall. The hotel's nice, but mass
produced. A Hilton, Sheraton, something. Upscale and generic.

He finds the door he wants: end of the hall, a sprint to the
fire exit. Knocks. Sound of a heavy hotel lock sliding back,
and the door swings open.

Kinnit steps inside--

INT. HOTEL ROOM-CONTINUOUS

Kinnit squints against a de-shaded lamp glaring at him. The
door starts closed, and a piece of heavy string knocks him
sideways. Kinnit swats it and the end flies out from the
shadows behind the lamp. The door slams shut.

KINNIT:
Son of a-- STEW, kill the light.
You think I haven't seen you?

There's a few seconds' silence, and the light goes off.
Kinnit blinks, then stares.

In a chair next to the table, lampshade in hand, is a man in
his late twenties, about Kinnit's age, maybe younger. He's
dressed like he's half it, and his hair is... Purple.

KINNIT: (CONT'D)
You bleed Barney out?

The man who must be Stew gets out of his chair. He's not very
tall, and on the heavy end of average weight. He runs his
hand through his hair, and exhales.

STEW:
My girlfriend said it'd look good.

KINNIT:
Has your girlfriend ever seen you?

STEW:
She's seen mySpace.

KINNIT:
And have you heard from her since
your head went eggplant?

...

STEW:
No, but I'm sure she's busy.

KINNIT:
Or she got her laugh.

STEW:
You're an ass.

Kinnit grins.

KINNIT:
Yet you keep calling.

Stew glowers a second then breaks into a smile, too. They
shake hands and hug.

STEW:
Long time.

KINNIT:
Yeah. How's Canada?

STEW:
Cold. I miss summer.

KINNIT:
Just become American already. NSA'd
probably kill for you.

STEW:
Exactly why I'd say no.

KINNIT:
Hippie.

STEW:
Fascist. And who took that print? A
toddler?

KINNIT:
My medical examiner, and there were
complications. You're lucky I
didn't do it, you'd just have a
smudge of dust.

STEW:
A cop that can't take a
fingerprint. Don't you people have
standards? Still, it's usable
enough. Not bad, anyway.

KINNIT:
So what do you have?

Stew sits down at the table. Opens a laptop there.

STEW:
Absolutely nothing. Can't do
anything from here.

KINNIT:
Brilliant.

STEW:
Hey, I'm not asking any of the
obvious questions. Like, why an
American cop needs someone in
Canadian intelligence to ID a
fingerprint for him at all.

KINNIT:
I told you.

STEW:
You did. And you're lucky I didn't
just run away. Only makes things
sound worse. But still, there's
nothing I can do.

KINNIT:
When can I expect something?

STEW:
Couple weeks at best. I can
probably slip it in some random
case file somewhere, with other
prints to be run through the US
databases. Provided I don't piss
someone off and start Operation
Extra Crispy Canadian Bacon, then
we'll have a name. Or we won't, and
I'll rat you out the second
somebody mentions naturopathic
dentistry. Either way, you find
something out.

Kinnit sits at the foot of the bed.

KINNIT:
Fantastic. Sit and wait.

STEW:
Basically.

KINNIT:
Okay.

...

KINNIT: (CONT'D)
You had a girlfriend?

INT. YEARBOOK OFFICE-NIGHT

A cramped little room with dark, still computers, bulletin
boards crammed with photos of extracurriculars, and desks
strewn with notes and discs.

Josh and Claire sit at a desk, flipping through yearbooks.

CLAIRE:
So what am I looking for, exactly?

Josh glances up.

JOSH:
You? Nothing. The guy wasn't
special looking. Normal, nothing
easy to pinpoint. Dark hair, dark
eyes, average enough height. Skinny
now, but in that way that says it's
a new thing.

CLAIRE:
How do you know he went here?
Couldn't he have just hitched in?

Josh nods, flips another page.

JOSH:
Sure, he could've. But there's
basically three kinds of towns.
Towns people escape, towns people
escape to, and towns people get
stuck in. Keene, it's the last one.
I'd bet a pinkie he went here, and
that things went downhill fast.

Claire closes her yearbook.

CLAIRE:
You can't just look at them in your
head? Isn't that your thing?

JOSH:
It wouldn't go any quicker. I'd
still need to look at all the
individual pictures. I'd just save
the time of a few page turns and
earn a migraine.

CLAIRE:
It hurts?

JOSH:
Of course. Especially when I make
the effort. It's like mind's eye
squinting. Ever seen Scanners?

Claire makes a face.

CLAIRE:
There goes what little sleep I had
left tonight. Thanks.

JOSH:
Sorry. I'll keep the visuals
primetime from now on.

Josh turns a page. Then--

JOSH: (CONT'D)
Hey, so why were you at the
hospital so late? Anything wrong?

Claire glances up from poking through a stack of photos and
right back down. She opens a yearbook and flips pages.

CLAIRE:
No big deal. My...Aunt is sick, and
my visit just ran late. She'll be
okay, though. No worries.

Claire gets further infatuated with her yearbook. Then she
turns it around and presents it to Josh. Points at a photo.

CLAIRE: (CONT'D)
I don't suppose this is him?

The guy's dark haired, dark eyed. Basically average, but not
the guy. Josh glances at it, shakes his head.

JOSH:
Nope. Not him.

Josh looks back at his yearbook, then pulls Claire's back. He
traces down a row, and a few to the right of the not-the-guy.

To the guy.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
But this is.

INT. SCHOOL OFFICE-NIGHT

The lock rattles and scrapes, the handle turns and the door
opens; Josh pulls the scraps of a paperclip out of the lock,
tosses them into a nearby trash can. Claire follows him in.

CLAIRE:
That was disturbingly easy.

Josh shrugs.

JOSH:
Nowhere's impregnable. And schools
are way down the list of places to
defend. Right below the DMV, and
right above Starbucks. I'm also
blessed with talents nobody my age
who's not a gangbanger should have.
Comes in handy.

CLAIRE:
Yeah. I bet. Fail a class, just
break in and make an A.

Josh pauses.

JOSH:
Hadn't thought of that. Hello
Harvard.

CLAIRE:
So what're we looking for?

JOSH:
Records for CHRIS MASON, former
student, current would-be mugger,
class of 2005. Where would that be?

Claire beelines for a PC on the front desk. Turns it on.

CLAIRE:
Now all we need is a password.
Which is your problem. School's
paranoid on e-security. I was an
aide last year, and the passwords
are all randomly generated, new
every semester.

JOSH:
How long?

CLAIRE:
Eight. Numbers and letters, case
sensitive. How does that help?

Josh shakes his head, bends to look under the desk counter.

JOSH:
It doesn't.

Josh peers at a bulletin board flyer. Ad for an office job.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
But, knowing the city only pays a
pittance over minimum wage to do
this job, that says people aren't
paid enough to care about security.

CLAIRE:
Okay. And that helps how?

Josh pulls open a drawer. Pens, pencils, stamps, pads of hall
passes, staples. Etc.

JOSH:
If you're not paid enough to care
about security, you're not paid
enough to memorize any kind of
random password every few months.
Which means, if you're lazy-- and
they're lazy, or were when they
signed me up-- you write it down
and hide it--

Josh reaches inside and up, and withdraws a bright green Post
It. On it: "n3VePraQ".

JOSH: (CONT'D)
Here. Try this: "n3VePraQ".

Claire types a password in under a name already loaded. Logs
in. Smooth sailing.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
You know how to find records?

CLAIRE:
Did it everyday.

JOSH:
Chris Mason, '05.

Claire opens a program, types in the info. The screen
refreshes to the data for Chris Mason, class of 2005.

CLAIRE:
Here he is. Chris Mason, June 21,
1986. GPA 2.4; dropped big time his
senior year. Submitted transcripts
to a few state universities, a
couple real reaches. No logged
acceptances, which means he didn't
go anywhere. Address at graduation:
532 Green St.

JOSH:
You know where that is?

CLAIRE:
Yeah. Not far.

Josh hesitates a few seconds.

JOSH:
You up for giving me a ride?

Claire looks Josh in the eye.

CLAIRE:
You got his only gun?

JOSH:
Unless he's forgone food to
assemble an army in his mom's
basement. I'm thinking yeah.

CLAIRE:
Okay then.

INT. COHEN'S BATHROOM-NIGHT

Cohen stumbles into the bathroom, weighed down with several
bottles of drain cleaner hanging from both arms, from an
assortment of stores.

He drops the bags, kneels, and uncaps a bottle.



END OF ACT TWO
ACT THREE

EXT. 532 GREEN STREET-NIGHT

Claire stops in front of a house. Or, what's probably a
house, behind the brick wall and iron gate. Josh gets out,
tugs the gate. Claire comes up behind him.

CLAIRE:
Big house.

She peers in at a mansion; nothing fancy, entry level,
probably no tennis courts.

JOSH:
Sure is. How do you go from this to
street muggings?

Claire shrugs.

CLAIRE:
Drugs, or just general falling out
with his parents, I'd guess. There
an intercom?

Josh glances to his left. There is. He presses a button.

A few seconds' pause, and sleepy voice comes back.

MR. MASON:
It's 3 o'clock in the morning.

JOSH:
Mr. Mason?

MR. MASON:
DR. MASON?

JOSH:
Okay. Dr. Mason. I need to talk to
you about your son. Chris.

...

JOSH: (CONT'D)
Dr. Mason?

There's a clanking, and the gate opens. The intercom buzzes.

DR. MASON:
I'll meet you at the door.

INT. MASON KITCHEN-NIGHT

Dr. Mason walks in, flicks a light on. He's forty-ish,
average height and weight, bland all around. Chris, plus 20
years. Josh and Claire follow. Mason leans against a counter,
stares at them.

DR. MASON:
Who are you?

Josh pauses a second.

JOSH:
The truth?

DR. MASON:
Preferably.

JOSH:
I stopped your son mugging a man
tonight. And I think he's done
something worse. Is he around?

Mason straightens.

DR. MASON:
Chris mugged somebody? Who?

Josh shrugs.

JOSH:
Older guy. Just someone.

DR. MASON:
And you think he's done something
worse than that? Why?

JOSH:
I just do. Can I see him?

DR. MASON:
He's not here. Hasn't been in more
than a year.

JOSH:
You're not lying.

DR. MASON:
No, I'm not.

JOSH:
So he moved out?

Mason shake his head.

DR. MASON:
I kicked him out.

CLAIRE:
Drugs?

Josh shoots Claire a "stop peeing on the potted plant" look.

DR. MASON:
Good guess.

Claire smirks.

CLAIRE:
So what happened?

DR. MASON:
Chris played basketball. Senior
year, he tore his knee up. He
wasn't good enough for scholarship,
but it still knocked him down.
After his surgery, he got hooked on
pain pills. Stole my partner's
prescription pad, started forging.
I found out, managed to cover it up
and keep him out of jail. He
refused rehab, I kicked him out.

JOSH:
Harsh.

DR. MASON:
He could've destroyed my practice.
And he had no remorse. I didn't
have a choice.

The intercom on the wall pops softly. Josh glances at it
quickly, then back.

JOSH:
Know anybody who'd have an idea
where he's living?

Dr. Mason shrugs.

DR. MASON:
No.

Josh nods.

JOSH:
I guess I'll go then. But-- I'm
sorry, just, you think I could use
your bathroom?

Dr. Mason stares at Josh a second. Shrugs.

DR. MASON:
Upstairs. Third on the left.

JOSH:
Thanks.

INT. MASON UPSTAIRS HALL-NIGHT

Josh reaches the landing and pauses. Slips down the hall,
silent, until he sees a door decorated with photos of teen
heartthrobs and singers. He knocks.

.... The door opens. A GIRL of 13 peers out, up at Josh.

JOSH:
Hey, I'm Josh. I think your brother
needs help. Think I can get a hand?

INT. MASON KITCHEN-NIGHT

Josh strides back in. Claire and Mason sit across from each
other, quiet. Josh smiles gratefully.

JOSH:
Thanks a lot. Busy night.

DR. MASON:
You're welcome.

Claire gets up and the pair head out. Dr. Mason's throat
interrupts them.

DR. MASON: (CONT'D)
Look-- If you do happen to find
Chris, could you tell him to call
me? His, uh, grandmother's sick. He
should know.

"Grandmother". Right. Josh gets it, nods.

JOSH:
Absolutely.

INT. CLAIRE'S CAR-NIGHT

Claire starts the car, looks at Josh.

CLAIRE:
So, dead end. Home?

Josh shakes his head.

JOSH:
Nope. I know where he lives.

CLAIRE:
How? Did you touch something of
his, get a flash?

Josh frowns at her.

JOSH:
Do I come off that cheesy? I mean,
I don't wear a turban or anything--
I asked his kid sister.

EXT. SKETCHY APARTMENT BUILDING-NIGHT

Josh and Claire stand by the car, staring at the building.

CLAIRE:
He's in there?

JOSH:
According to his sister.

CLAIRE:
What can you tell?

JOSH:
Nothing, from here.

CLAIRE:
So what's the plan?

Josh glances at her.

JOSH:
The plan?

CLAIRE:
Yeah. What're we going to do?

Josh sighs.

JOSH:
I'm going to go inside, and figure
out which place is his.
You're going to wait in the car,
doors locked, engine running, and
you're going to take off if
anything seems remotely wrong.

CLAIRE:
But--

JOSH:
Look, I'm glad you're not, you
know, terrified. Really. But I
really have no idea what's going to
happen. It was better thinking he
was living with his parents. But
he's not. Makes it dangerous, and
I'm not risking you. Okay?

Claire shrugs.

CLAIRE:
Fine. You're right, I know.

JOSH:
Okay. If you don't hear from me in
a half hour, call the cops.

CLAIRE:
Why don't we just call them now?

Good question.

JOSH:
I don't know. It doesn't feel
right.

CLAIRE:
Why not?

JOSH:
I don't know. It's just a thing.

Claire's eyes brighten and she nods knowingly.

CLAIRE:
A vision thing?

JOSH:
No, a perfectly normal, non-potentially dangerous mental
disorder thing.

CLAIRE:
That's not nearly as cool.

JOSH:
To you, maybe.

Josh starts across the street. He turns back.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
Thirty minutes--

CLAIRE:
Call the cops, got it.

INT. COHEN'S BATHROOM-NIGHT

Cohen sets aside one bottle, and opens another. He upends it
over the tub, liquid sloshes in.

He stares fixedly away, jaw fixed in that special way only
those holding back their last meal can manage.

INT. SKETCHY APARTMENT BUILDING, HALLWAY-NIGHT

Josh peers at a list, stapled to the wall. Probably updated
every few days. There's a listing for Chris Mason, 4D. Josh
starts up a staircase with a loose iron banister.

INT. CLAIRE'S CAR-NIGHT

Claire sits staring at the darkness, a little pale, a little
shaky. A shadow moves across the car, and she jumps with a
squeak. She peers around, and sees--

EXT. SKETCHY APARTMENT BUILDING-CONTINUOUS

Chris Mason, same guy from the yearbook photo, a year older,
few pounds lighter, and heading home. Claire's eyes widen,
and she fumbles out her phone.

INT. SARA'S BEDROOM-NIGHT

SARA CARSON's cell phone chirps loudly. And again. Again.

Again. Again. Jeez. Wake up, already.

A bedside lamp clicks on, and Sara sits up, hands rub her
eyes. She picks up the phone.

SARA:
Claire? Are you okay?

...

SARA: (CONT'D)
Josh's number? What?

INT. CLAIRE'S CAR-NIGHT

CLAIRE:
Look, there's like, no time. Do you
have it?

INT. SKETCHY APARTMENT BUILDING, HALLWAY-NIGHT

Josh's phone buzzes. On vibrate. Josh pulls it out, and slips
underneath the stairs.

JOSH:
What?

Josh listens, and his eyebrows ride an elevator.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
Thanks.

INT. SKETCHY APARTMENT BUILDING, HALLWAY-NIGHT

Chris Mason climbs the last few stairs slowly, and heads for
his door. He fishes his keys out, and slips it into the lock,
steps inside.

Josh slips from the stairs, and sprints silent to the door,
slipping his driver's license into the door as it shuts.

Josh lets out a silent breath. Then he eases the door open.

INT. CHRIS' APARTMENT-CONTINUOUS

Stained carpet, brown walls. A tiny space with a kitchenette
to one side, a living room/bedroom going on to the other,
outfitted with a mattress and a battered combo VCR/TV.

Directly ahead, a bathroom with no door, just a curtain
pushed aside. Chris Mason pulls his shirt off, missing Josh's
entrance.

The door shuts, Chris Mason spins.

And Josh's mouth drops open.

His eyes stares at the young man's chest. Arms. Bruises
everywhere. A few clearly the shape of the revolver's butt.
Chris stares at Josh with panicked eyes.

JOSH:
Dude, I am so sorry.



END OF ACT THREE
ACT FOUR

EXT. SKETCHY APARTMENT BUILDING-NIGHT

The building's door crashes open. Josh and Chris run outside.

They reach the car. Josh opens the door and pushes Chris
inside, leans in--

JOSH:
Take him home, all right?
(to Chris)
You got the wallet?

Chris fumbles in his pants, hands it over.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
Thanks.

CLAIRE:
Josh.

JOSH:
Yeah?

Claire nods at Chris.

CLAIRE:
Isn't he bad?

Josh shakes his head.

JOSH:
Just unlucky. He's harmless. I've
got to go.

Josh straightens.

CLAIRE:
Wait.

Back down.

JOSH:
Yeah?

CLAIRE:
You going to get yourself killed?

JOSH:
Not unless something goes very,
very wrong.

CLAIRE:
You have that habit.

Take "the potted plant", replace with "the neighbor's foot".

JOSH:
There's no choice, and no time. Go!

Claire bites her lip and looks at Josh.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
Now would be good.

She shifts and pulls away. Josh watches the car round the
corner. Then down at the wallet in his hands.

It's open to a driver's license. Tom Hackett, of 1232 Rainier
Ave., Keene, Washington.

INT. KINNIT'S OFFICE-NIGHT

Kinnit's office is dark. The entire place is, actually. He's
in his chair, feet on his desk, out cold.

His phone rings. Kinnit snaps awake, and he goes backward
with his chair. He sits up, grabs the phone.

KINNIT:
Detective Kinnit, Keene Police, how
may I help you?

Kinnit listens. He wakes up fast.

KINNIT: (CONT'D)
Don't do anything. Be right there.

INT. COHEN'S BATHROOM-NIGHT

Cohen empties yet another bottle. The tub's full. He leans
back against it, and puts his head in his hands.

A phone rings. Cohen's head comes up. He starts to his feet.

INT. COHEN'S OFFICE-NIGHT

Cohen enters, and stops dead, stares at the closed computer.
The speakers still work--

KINNIT:
(on computer)
Detective Kinnit, Keene Police, how
may I help you?

JOSH:
This is Josh Shepherd. From
earlier. That mugger was the
victim. I'm on my way to Hackett's
house. The address is--

EXT. 1232 RAINIER, BACKYARD-NIGHT

Nice house. Older, a bit faded, but nice. High privacy fence
covered with ivy. A shape rolls over the top of the fence and
drops into the yard, in a crouch.

It's Josh.

The house is mostly dark. Only two windows on the second
story are lit. Josh stands up and backs against the ivy, eyes
fixed on them.

Nothing for a couple of seconds, then Hackett paces past the
smaller window, toothbrush in hand and mouth.

Out of a sight a second. He pace past again head back, mouth
open. Gargling. Back out of sight.

The bathroom light winks out. Hackett passes the other
window, then that light winks out.

Peaceful. If only it weren't the creepy kind.

INT. 1232 RAINIER, HACKETT'S BEDROOM-NIGHT

Pitch black. A soft creak, dim light from the door leaks in.

The door swings wide, Josh's outline black on the half-light
of the hall.

Bedsprings squeak, and a light switches on. Hackett stares,
baffled, at Josh, who's got one hand behind his back.

HACKETT:
Josh?

Josh's face gives nothing. He enters fully, steps to the side
and leans against a dresser. There's that same set to his jaw
as Cohen's. The vomit-block.

HACKETT: (CONT'D)
Josh, what are you doing here?

Josh is silent for a long second. Then--

JOSH:
It wasn't the first time.

Hackett's expression shifts: true confusion to feigned.

HACKETT:
What're you talking about?

JOSH:
I had an interesting talk with
Chris Mason.

HACKETT:
Who?

Josh nods.

JOSH:
Right, you probably didn't get his
name. Harder to do what you did if
they get an identity.

Hackett starts to swing his feet to the floor. Far too fast.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
Stop.

Hackett does, feet halfway to the carpet.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
Feet on the bed. You try anything,
remember I'm nearly 40 years
younger, faster than you ever were,
and supremely uninterested in
having you see dawn. Got me?

Hackett nods, and moves his feet back onto the bed.

Josh leans forward, and his hand comes in view. A baggie of
meat. It'd be nice if it were pork, but that's just not how
Hackett rolls, is it?

JOSH: (CONT'D)
You should hide it better. False
wall or something. Basement
freezer's half-baked.

Josh gives a hollow laugh.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
But maybe you go raw.

Josh pitches it at Hackett, who misses it. The package hits
him hard in the stomach.

HACKETT:
Josh, what do you think this is?

JOSH:
I know what it is. And in a few
minutes, so will the Keene Police
Department. And quite probably most
of the country. Cannibalism trumps
just about every celebrity.

Hackett starts to his feet again.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
What's downstairs makes you
expendable. Stay where you are.

Sirens. Far off, but growing louder.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
Chris really got lucky. People that
won't be missed, I guess?
Hitchikers, homeless, downtrodden?
I knew you were bad, but-- God. How
long you been operating?

HACKETT:
Josh, I--

JOSH:
You're right, I don't want to know.
I want to sleep sometime this year.

Sirens are close now. No more than thirty seconds away.
Probably less. Hackett is flushed, starting to squirm. Not
worth pretending anymore.

HACKETT:
How did you know?

JOSH:
Chris told me. Didn't really need
to, though. I saw the bruises. No
way the attacker ends up that way.

Hackett nods, bows his head, seems to resign. Then--

He hurls the frozen baggie at Josh's head. Josh cocks his
head to one side, and it collides with the wall.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
I'm very quick, Mr. Hackett.

Josh half-glances at the baggie.

JOSH: (CONT'D)
Not really, though.

...

JOSH: (CONT'D)
One question. You offered me a
ride. Why?

Hackett's stares down at the blankets. A long few seconds
pass. Sirens are right there now. Blue and red swirl in the
windows. Car doors slam. A knock at the front.

Hackett looks up. There's nothing really human there. Rage
and hunger barely restrained.

HACKETT:
You're very lean.

EXT. 1232 RAINIER-DAWN

A whole mess of police cars, two vans claiming medical
examiner, news vans too fill the street in front. The whole
shebang. The sky's lightening behind the blue and red and
lime lights. Onlookers gawk.

The front door opens, and two officers escort Tom Hackett,
cuffed, across the lawn, shortly followed by Kinnit,
escorting somebody covered by his coat.

Hackett is put into a black-and-white. Reporters crowd the
car, bulbs flash, REPORTERS clamor.

Kinnit is unnoticed putting the Coathead into his car.

INT. KINNIT'S CAR/JOSH'S HOUSE-DAWN

Kinnit rolls to a stop. He looks in the backseat. Josh pushes
the coat forward.

JOSH:
Thanks for that.

KINNIT:
It's probably the best thing all
around. The city doesn't need
asking why a 17 year old's cracking
a serial murder case.

JOSH:
Probably not.

KINNIT:
Why did you try and find Chris?

Josh shrugs.

JOSH:
He looked like he needed help. Even
if he were a mugger.

KINNIT:
Did he get it?

Josh looks down, then glances out the window.

Claire sits on the porch, freshly showered and dressed eyes
on the car, expectant.

JOSH:
I think so. Hope, anyway.

Kinnit follows Josh's gaze.

KINNIT:
Girlfriend?

Josh whirls around, astammer.

JOSH:
Huh, what? No. Just a friend.

Kinnit smirks.

KINNIT:
Of course.

EXT. JOSH'S HOUSE-DAWN

Josh walks across the lawn, Kinnit drives off. Claire starts
toward him. A yard apart they stop.

JOSH:
How's Chris?

Claire smiles. Genuine, no fear, worry, just happy.

CLAIRE:
Good I think. Won't be easy, but
they both seemed happy to see each
other. How'd you do?

Josh wrinkles his nose.

JOSH:
Watch the news this morning.

Claire's eyes glance away and back.

CLAIRE:
That an invitation?

Josh freezes.

JOSH:
Uh--

CLAIRE:
I make a mean omelette. Hash
browns. Crispy bacon.

Josh shivers.

JOSH:
Everything but the bacon and you've
got a deal.

Claire shrugs.

CLAIRE:
Deal.

JOSH:
Okay, then.

Josh starts for the porch. As he passes Claire, her hand
slips in his. Josh pauses and glances down.

CLAIRE:
What?

Josh smiles and shakes his head.

JOSH:
Nothing.

INT. JOSH'S HOUSE-FOYER-DAWN

They enter, and Josh stops, looks up the stairs.

JOSH:
I'm just gonna change real quick,
okay?

Claire nods.

CLAIRE:
Sure, I'll get in here.

Claire heads for the kitchen, Josh climbs the stairs.

INT. JOSH'S HOUSE-JOSH'S ROOM-DAWN

Josh pushes his door open and strides inside, heads straight
for his dresser.

Josh pulls open a drawer, whips his shirt off--

The door's closed. Dr. Cohen's there. He slinks toward Josh.

WHITE FLASH.

Josh winces but immediately spins. Not quick enough. A
syringe plunges into Josh's neck. Cohen pulls out.

Josh staggers back against the dresser. He opens his mouth to
speak. Nothing. His eyes widen. Then he sags forward.

Cohen catches him and eases him the floor. Lies Josh on his
back. Cohen leans over him, looks into his eyes.

COHEN:
I've injected you with Sux; it's a
muscle relaxant. You're paralyzed.
Five minutes only. Listen.

Josh stares up into Cohen's face. Fear's about the only thing
comes across.

COHEN: (CONT'D)
You need to be careful.

Cohen reaches down and rummages Josh's pockets, fishes out
his wallet. He pulls out the black Amex.

COHEN: (CONT'D)
This is for emergencies. Literally
end-of-the-world. Not some stupid
crusade against a triad, not for
your friend's birthday. You use
this and don't run, they find you.
There is a limit to what I can
cover. You understand?

Rhetorical, then? Cohen's voice is shaking, his eyes plead.

COHEN: (CONT'D)
You've got questions, don't ask
them. Start over. You came home;
not ideal, but the tracks are
hidden, so you got a shot. Go to
school, college, have a life.
Forget. I can't save you again.

Cohen's watch beeps. He looks at it.

COHEN: (CONT'D)
Out of time.

Cohen leans down, kisses Josh's forhead.

COHEN: (CONT'D)
You're good. That's your weakness,
but it's good thing. Don't let it
get you killed.

JOSH'S POV

Cohen stands and walks out of sight. A window scrapes open.
Wind whistles. Josh wheezes, and his view fades into black.



END OF SHOW