A vast, flat whiteness. The sky is a bruised purple-grey.
SOUND of a constant, heavy WIND. Not a howl, but a physical pressure.
LEON (11), bundled in a worn coat and scratchy scarf, leans into the wind. He’s small for his age, face pinched with cold. His eyelashes are crusted with ice; each blink is a conscious effort.
In his thickly-mittened left hand, he clutches a BLUE PLASTIC BAG. It strains against the wind, slippery.
Five steps ahead, SAM (12), a black shape in a puffy jacket, plows forward, head down. A beetle fighting a current.
Leon adjusts his grip on the bag.
They turn a corner. The world shifts to a sick, buzzing orange under the few streetlights already on. The town feels closed, houses like dark boxes buried in snow. Thin white lines of smoke rise from chimneys and vanish.
SOUND of boots making a dry, STYROFOAM SQUEAK on the packed snow.
Leon doesn't answer. He switches the blue bag to his other hand, wincing as he flexes his aching fingers.
They pass a derelict HARDWARE STORE. The windows are boarded with greyed plywood. On one board, a spray-painted smiley face has peeled and cracked over the years, now resembling a skull.
Leon slows, studying it. The way the black paint flakes away, showing the wood grain beneath.
Sam stops, walking backward a few steps to join him.
Sam snorts, a puff of white steam jetting from his nose.
Sam stops dead. His stiff coat forces him to turn his whole body to face Leon. He stares as if Leon just grew wings.
Leon says nothing. He knows Sam is right. The wind gusts, slapping his back.
Sam starts walking again.
Leon stops. The cold instantly seeps into his legs.
A hollow look on Leon's face. He clutches the bag tighter.
They walk in silence, the only sound the SCRITCH-SCRITCH of their nylon snow pants.
A flash of anger in Leon's eyes.
Sam squints at the shadow. He considers it for a long beat. He shakes his head.
Leon runs to catch up, careful not to drop the bag.
They step onto a metal grate bridge spanning a deep, frozen ravine. The railings are coated in thick, fuzzy hoarfrost.
SOUND of their footsteps ringing out. CLANG. CLANG.
The wind is a physical force here, rushing down the creek bed. It hits them sideways.
Leon staggers. His boot slips on the icy metal.
He throws his arms out for balance.
The blue plastic bag slips from his mitten.
The wind catches the bag. It inflates like a balloon and shoots sideways, skittering across the grate toward the railing.
Leon lunges, sliding on his stomach. His mitten brushes the slick plastic—
But the wind punts it through a gap in the railing.
Leon scrambles to his knees, peering over the edge.
LEON'S POV - The blue bag dances down into the ravine, a single spot of color in the white. It snags on a branch, flaps, then tears free, tumbling to rest on the frozen creek below.
Leon doesn't hesitate. He swings a leg over the railing. The frozen metal burns through his snow pants.
He drops.
Leon lands in powder that comes up to his waist. He sinks. The cold rushes into his boots.
He starts wading through the snow, a slow, exhausting struggle. He keeps his eyes locked on the blue bag, now stuck against a dead log on the ice.
Leon ignores him, sweating inside his coat. His breath comes in ragged gasps.
He reaches the edge of the creek. The ice is black and polished, swept clean by the wind. He steps onto it carefully. It holds. Solid as rock.
He shuffles-runs to the log and grabs the bag. It's torn.
He looks inside. The sketchbook is there. He pulls it out. The cardboard cover is dark and wet with melted snow. He wipes it with his mitten.
He opens it. The pages are stiff. He flips to his drawing: a WOLF, rendered in sharp, geometric lines and triangles of black marker. It stares back, fierce and uncaring.
It's safe.
Leon shoves the book under his jacket, against his sweater, and zips up. He looks up at the bridge. Sam is a small, dark silhouette.
Leon looks at the steep, churned-up slope. Down here, out of the wind, it's eerily quiet. The silence presses in.
He starts to climb.
It's a desperate scramble. He claws at the snow with his hands, his gloves soaking through. He kicks his toes into the bank to make footholds. His fingers burn, then go numb.
Ten minutes later, a hand appears over the railing. Sam grabs Leon's hood and hauls him the rest of the way.
Leon collapses onto the metal grate, panting, white spots dancing in his vision.
Leon sits up. He unzips his jacket and pulls out the sketchbook. The cover is warped and bent. Pathetic.
Sam stares at the book, then at Leon's face, red and splotched with the white beginnings of frostbite on his cheeks.
Sam shakes his head. He looks angry, sad, old.
The words hang in the cold air. Leon realizes they're true.
They walk again, Leon shaking as the adrenaline fades. His feet are blocks of ice in his wet boots.
Leon thinks of the wolf. He didn't feel the cold when he was drawing it. He didn't feel the town.
They reach Sam's driveway. An orange extension cord runs from the house to the grille of his dad's truck.
SOUND of the low, electric HUM of an engine block heater.
He trudges up his driveway without looking back.
Leon walks the last two blocks alone. The wind howls through hydro wires. The sky is now a flat, dead black.
He stands on his dark porch. The front light is out.
SOUND from inside: the muffled drone of a TV NEWS REPORT.
He doesn't go in. He pulls the sketchbook from his jacket. In the darkness, he can only feel its warped shape. It feels like a slab of ice.
He looks out at the street. The wind blows a fine spray of snow across the asphalt like smoke. Like ghosts.
He puts the book back inside his jacket, zipping it to his chin. He feels the cold paper pressing against his heart. A secret hardness.
He puts his bare hand on the metal doorknob. It bites into his palm.
FADE TO BLACK.
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