IN THE BEAM
SOUND of an IRRITABLE, LOW HUM
The air is thick, smelling of pine cleaner and stale popcorn. Fluorescent lights cast a sickly, sterile glow over worn linoleum floors and stacked plastic chairs.
DEVON (30s), earnest, his dark hair damp with sweat, wrestles with a BEIGE BEHEMOTH of a projector. His faded t-shirt, featuring a grumpy badger with a paintbrush, clings to his back.
He yanks a VGA cable. Nothing. The projector beam on the makeshift screen is a wobbly, ghostly grey rectangle.
He checks the clock on the wall: 7:43 PM. Seventeen minutes. He mutters to the machine.
A hand, slick with sweat, slips on the focus knob. He wipes it on his jeans, leaving a greasy smudge. The fine hairs on his arms stand on end from the static charge building around the machine.
Devon looks up. SIMONE (30s), sharp and stylishly sensible, leans in the doorway, arms crossed. A canvas tote is slung over her shoulder. One eyebrow is perfectly arched in detached amusement.
Devon forces a lopsided, exhausted grin.
Simone walks into the room, her trainers making soft thuds.
She stops at the projector, peering at it with clinical detachment. Without another word, she reaches down, YANKS the power cord from the extension, and plugs it back in with a decisive CLICK.
The projector WHIRS, shudders, and a faded "Welcome to PowerPoint" slide shimmers into focus on the screen.
Devon stares, his jaw slack.
She pulls a stray thread from her sleeve.
A bright, musical laugh echoes from the doorway.
BRIAR (30s) floats into the room, a vision in a flowing linen dress, her auburn hair catching the light. She carries a wooden tray laden with small, jewel-like jars of jam.
She places the tray on a trestle table with a delicate THUMP.
She beams at them. Devon swallows a bitter retort. He straightens his badger t-shirt.
The hall is now full. The air smells of wild rice casserole and bannock. ELDERS and community members chat warmly.
Devon, Simone, and Briar sit at the head table. Briar is already charming ELDER MARGARET (70s), her voice a melodious chime as she discusses her jam.
It's their turn to present. Devon stands, gripping the lectern.
A QUICK SERIES OF SHOTS:
A) Devon points to a budget slide, passionately explaining how SDG 4 (Quality Education) translates to workshops in digital storytelling and traditional crafts. His delivery is earnest, packed with detail.
B) Simone stands, crisp and factual, outlining grant applications and partnerships. Her delivery is persuasive, punctuated by a dry joke that makes an Elder chuckle.
C) Briar rises, her linen dress swirling. She doesn’t use the lectern. She moves closer to the audience, her hands gesturing gracefully.
Her voice is captivating. The Elders lean in, nodding.
Beside Devon, Simone stiffens almost imperceptibly. Her face remains a neutral mask.
The meeting is over. People linger. Devon corners Simone by the refreshment table. Briar’s jam sits mostly untouched.
Across the room, Briar laughs vivaciously with ELDER JOSEPH. She catches Devon’s eye, offering a wide, disarming smile. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
The hall is nearly empty. The three of them clear up in a strained silence. The CLATTER of plates is overly loud.
Devon stacks chairs, his movements stiff. Briar wipes down a table, humming a light tune, her cheerfulness feeling almost aggressive.
Briar stops wiping, cloth in hand.
Briar walks over, her face a mask of performative concern.
Devon stares at her, dumbfounded.
Simone’s voice is calm, a cool balm on the tension.
Briar’s smile flickers for a micro-second. A crack in the mask.
She pats Devon’s arm. The gesture is proprietary, not comforting.
She turns away, collecting her perfect jars of jam.
As she heads for the door, a silhouette against the deep blue of the coming night, Devon catches Simone’s eye.
Her expression is unguarded for just a flash—a mix of frustration and apprehension. A confirmation. She quickly looks away, bending to pick up a dropped napkin.
But the look was enough. A chasm has opened up.
Devon stands in the quiet hall, the irritable hum of the projector now switched off, replaced by a growing agitation in his own chest.
Outside, the mournful CRY of a loon echoes across the lake.
FADE OUT.
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