The wind is a physical presence. It howls around the concrete corners of a downtown intersection. The sky is a flat, oppressive grey.
SULLY (20), thin and "soul tired," stands hunched against the assault. He wears a cheap, oversized jacket and scuffed combat boots. He vibrates, a high-frequency tremor that rattles his teeth. A heavy duffel bag is slung over his shoulder.
He pulls out a cracked smartphone. The screen reads: -28°C / FEELS LIKE -42°C. He shoves it back in his pocket and checks his watch.
A city bus, a behemoth of grime and exhaust, rumbles past. Its windows are opaque with frost. The screech of its brakes is agonizing.
Sully stomps his feet against the frozen pavement. The sound is dull, dead.
A HOMELESS MAN, bundled in layers of wool and a garbage bag poncho, shuffles past, pushing a shopping cart full of empty cans that clink like a broken wind chime.
The man doesn't look at Sully, just keeps pushing into the wind.
Sully gives up. He turns and ducks into the revolving doors of a massive office tower behind him.
A blast of humid heat hits Sully like a punch. His glasses fog instantly, blinding him. The air smells of floor wax and damp wool.
He pulls the glasses off, wiping them on his scarf.
The lobby is a cavern of polished marble and silence. Two bored, stern-looking SECURITY GUARDS stand by a bank of elevators. They clock Sully immediately—the heavy bag, the darting eyes. He doesn't belong.
Sully avoids their gaze and heads for a wide escalator descending into the floor.
Sully rides the escalator down into a subterranean network of tunnels. This is the underground city—a warren of food courts, dry cleaners, and shops connecting the downtown towers. The air is recycled, stale.
His phone BUZZES. A text from DEANE.
It reads: Stuck at the light. Meet at the fountain. 5 mins.
Sully shoves the phone away and walks. He passes a florist. The roses for sale are too red, too perfect. He sees his reflection in a darkened shop window—he looks twenty going on fifty.
Sully arrives at a wide intersection in the concourse. In the center is a large, dry, tiled pit—the fountain, not running for the winter.
People stream past, a river of parkas and briefcases.
And then he sees him. DEANE (40s), a sloppy, loud man in a neon yellow construction jacket that has seen better decades. He leans against a pillar, aggressively eating a pretzel. Mustard is smeared at the corner of his mouth.
Sully winces, approaching him quickly.
Deane wipes his greasy hand on his jacket.
Sully pats the duffel bag.
Deane’s grin falters. He puts on a look of performative confusion.
Sully's face hardens. Not with fear, but with pure irritation.
Sully stares at him, weighing his non-existent options. His rent is late. He sighs, defeated.
Deane claps Sully on the shoulder. It feels like being hit with a damp towel.
They start walking through the concourse.
They move into a glass tube suspended over a street. Below, cars crawl through grey slush, their exhaust rising like ghosts.
Deane rambles on about city council conspiracies.
Sully isn't listening. He watches a group of TEENAGERS ahead, skipping school, laughing and shoving each other.
One of them, a GIRL WITH PURPLE HAIR and a nose ring, glances back. Her eyes meet Sully's. There's no judgment, no disdain. Just a flash of... pity.
Sully looks away, down at the scuffed linoleum floor.
They enter a dying mall. It's cavernous, echoing. Snow on the skylights casts a dim, bluish light over the atrium.
Deane shoves his half-eaten pretzel into Sully's hand and disappears into a washroom before Sully can protest.
Sully stands alone, holding a duffel bag of stolen goods and a cold pretzel. He scans the sparse food court. A few seniors with coffee. A security guard on his phone.
And then he freezes.
Behind the counter of 'Pretzel Twister', wiping down a display case, is KYLA (20). She's wearing a uniform and a visor. She looks tired, but normal. Respectable.
Sully wants to melt into the floor.
Kyla looks up. Her eyes scan the food court. They land on Sully.
Recognition dawns. She pauses, then offers a small, tentative smile. She waves.
Sully can't just turn away. He walks toward her, ditching Deane's pretzel in a trash can as he passes.
It's February. Kyla doesn't call him on it.
She laughs. A genuine, nice sound.
Her smile fades slightly as she really looks at him—the cheap jacket, the nervous energy. Her gaze is intelligent, seeing.
The question hangs in the air. Sully feels the dampness inside his boots.
A sharp pang hits Sully's chest.
Sully turns and walks away just as Deane emerges from the washroom, zipping his fly.
They head for the parkade entrance.
The wind howls through concrete pillars on the exposed top level of the parkade. It's even colder up here.
A grey sedan sits idling, white smoke billowing from its tailpipe.
They approach the car. The passenger window rolls down. A TUQUE GUY (30s), sketchier than Deane, looks out.
Sully passes the duffel bag through the window. The Tuque Guy unzips it, pokes at the contents.
He hands a thin envelope to Deane. The window rolls up. The sedan peels away, tires squealing on the frost-slicked concrete.
Deane quickly counts the money in the envelope. He peels off a few bills and holds them out to Sully.
Sully stares at the colourful plastic bills. Monopoly money. He takes it without another word. The energy for a fight just isn't there.
Deane waddles off toward the elevator, leaving Sully alone on the roof.
Sully looks out over the city. Grey buildings, grey sky. Steam rises from vents like the city is breathing. He shoves the money in his pocket. His fingers are too numb to feel it.
Dusk. The streetlights flicker on, casting amber pools on the snow.
Sully stands with a small crowd of commuters, huddled together for warmth like a herd of bison.
A MAN next to him lights a cigarette, cupping the flame.
The man gives a dry, hacking laugh.
The 16 Osborne bus pulls up, its doors hissing open. A wave of warm, damp air spills out.
Sully gets on and taps his transit card on the reader. A sharp, negative BEEP. The screen flashes: INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.
The BUS DRIVER, a heavy-set man with exhausted eyes, looks at Sully, then at the line of freezing people behind him. He gives a slight, weary jerk of his head toward the back of the bus.
Sully walks to the back and slumps into a hard plastic seat. He leans his head against the window. The vibration of the engine rattles his skull.
The bus lurches forward. The frozen city slides past the window.
Sully closes his eyes.
He feels a faint warmth. The heater vent under his seat is pushing hot air into his cheap boots. The feeling starts as a dull ache, then sharpens into a thousand painful needles. A thaw.
The freezing was easy. It's the coming back to life that hurts.
The bus keeps moving forward.
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