EXT. PORTAGE AVENUE - DAY
A brutal Winnipeg winter. Wind howls down the concrete canyon of the street, whipping up clouds of gritty snow.
JAMES (28), artistic, anxious, skitters on the icy sidewalk. He's underdressed for the weather, his face raw. His leather-soled dress shoes offer zero traction. He's a mess of flailing limbs.
Fifty feet ahead, SIMON (30), grounded and competent, doesn't run. He stalks. His heavy boots plant with confident purpose. He wears a bulky Carhartt jacket, unbothered by the cold.
James's lungs burn. He staggers, grabbing a lamppost to steady himself. The metal bites through his glove.
Ahead, Simon speaks without turning. His voice is a low rumble, nearly lost in the gale.
<center>SIMON</center>
Keep up.
James gasps for air, the word tearing at his throat.
<center>JAMES</center>
Slippery.
Simon stops. Turns. His face is red from the wind but otherwise composed. He glances down at James's feet.
<center>SIMON</center>
Dress shoes.
It's a flat, judgmental statement of fact.
<center>JAMES</center>
I didn't have time.
<center>SIMON</center>
You had three years.
James flips him off, a clumsy gesture in his mittens. Simon just smirks, the expression cracking the ice in his beard. He turns and points a gloved finger at the sidewalk.
<center>SIMON</center>
Look.
James squints. Amidst the grey, salt-stained sludge, he sees it: a smudge of bright, electric azure. A stenciled footprint. A few feet later, another one. A trail.
<center>JAMES</center>
What is it?
<center>SIMON</center>
Summer.
Simon starts walking again, following the blue track.
<center>JAMES</center>
That's stupid.
<center>SIMON</center>
You're following.
James grinds his teeth. He is. He pushes off the lamppost and slides after him.
EXT. EXCHANGE DISTRICT ALLEY - DAY
The wind dies. The brick walls of the old warehouses block the gale, creating a pocket of heavy silence. The only sounds are the CRUNCH of salt under their feet and the distant, rhythmic THUMP of a pile driver.
The blue footprints weave a chaotic path around dumpsters and up loading docks.
Simon stops at a heavy steel door covered in stickers. He leans against the brick, waiting. James catches up, bent over, hands on his knees, breath pluming in massive clouds.
<center>JAMES</center>
(wheezing)
Why?
<center>SIMON</center>
You looked pathetic.
Not mean. Just a fact.
<center>JAMES</center>
I was fine.
<center>SIMON</center>
You were wearing the same sweatpants as last week. I could see you through the window.
<center>JAMES</center>
Creepy.
<center>SIMON</center>
Observant.
Simon reaches out, brushes a dusting of snow from James's shoulder. The touch is firm, heavy. It lingers a beat too long.
<center>SIMON</center>
(CONT'D)
The blue prints. Kid down at the youth center told me about them. Said they lead to the only warm spot in the city.
<center>JAMES</center>
A radiator?
<center>SIMON</center>
Something better. Come on.
He continues down the alley, following the trail. James hesitates, then follows.
<center>SIMON</center>
Watch it.
Simon grabs James's elbow, yanking him back just as a massive SHEET OF SNOW slides off a roof three stories up. It CRASHES onto the pavement exactly where James was about to step.
James stares at the pile of white debris, shaken.
<center>JAMES</center>
Okay. Thanks.
<center>SIMON</center>
Don't mention it.
Simon doesn't let go of his elbow, guiding him around the snow pile. The grip is warm, steady.
<center>JAMES</center>
You still working at the garage?
<center>SIMON</center>
Yep. Lead mechanic now.
<center>JAMES</center>
Good for you.
<center>SIMON</center>
It is.
The conversation dies. They walk in silence.
The blue footprints lead to a chain-link fence. A hole has been cut in the wire, the edges curled back.
<center>JAMES</center>
We're trespassing.
<center>SIMON</center>
Probably.
Simon ducks through the hole with surprising grace. He stands on the other side, waiting.
James eyes his expensive Italian wool coat, sighs, and shimmies through. A piece of wire snags his scarf, ripping a thread. He winces.
EXT. COURTYARD - DAY
They are in a hidden space between four high brick walls. The wind doesn't reach here. The air is still. It smells of burnt sugar and yeast.
In the center, a massive, industrial space heater ROARS, its grate glowing orange. It sits on a throne of wooden pallets.
Around it, on mismatched lawn chairs, sit three people: a TEENAGER in a neon ski suit, an OLD WOMAN (70s) with skis duct-taped to her walker's legs, and a GUITAR GUY tuning a guitar.
James stares, bewildered.
<center>JAMES</center>
(whispering)
What is this?
<center>SIMON</center>
The warm spot.
The GUITAR GUY looks up.
<center>GUITAR GUY</center>
Entry fee is a joke or a cigarette.
<center>SIMON</center>
I quit. James?
<center>JAMES</center>
I don't smoke.
<center>SIMON</center>
Joke then.
James's mind goes blank. The Old Woman watches him with hawk eyes.
<center>JAMES</center>
What's... What is a ghost's favorite fruit?
The Teenager groans.
<center>TEENAGER</center>
Boo-berries. Everyone knows that one. Try again.
James flushes, looks to Simon for help. Simon just crosses his arms, enjoying the show.
<center>JAMES</center>
Okay. Why did the scarecrow win an award?
<center>OLD WOMAN</center>
Because he was out standing in his field!
(cackles)
That's a classic. Sit down, skinny boy. You look like you're about to snap in half.
She kicks a plastic crate toward him. James sits, his legs shaking. The blast of hot air hits his face like salvation.
Simon sits on a bucket next to him. He pulls a thermos from his jacket, pours steaming liquid into the cup-lid, and hands it to the Old Woman. Then he pours a second for James.
<center>JAMES</center>
Whiskey?
<center>SIMON</center>
Tea. With a kick.
James sips. It's scalding, sweet, and sharp with bourbon. He closes his eyes, letting the liquid fire settle in his stomach.
<center>SIMON</center>
(quietly)
Better?
<center>JAMES</center>
Yeah.
<center>SIMON</center>
You were spiraling.
The words fall out of James's mouth before he can stop them.
<center>JAMES</center>
I lost my job, Simon.
He stares into his cup, waiting for the lecture. Simon just bumps his shoulder against James's. A solid, heavy impact.
<center>SIMON</center>
Their loss.
<center>JAMES</center>
They said I lack vision.
<center>SIMON</center>
Bullshit. You saw the potential in that wreck of a loft on Princess Street. You saw the potential in me.
James lets out a short, sharp laugh.
<center>JAMES</center>
You weren't a wreck.
<center>SIMON</center>
I was living in a van and eating raw noodles. I was a wreck.
<center>JAMES</center>
You were... bohemian.
<center>SIMON</center>
I was homeless, Jules. You gave me keys.
The nickname, Jules, lands. The Guitar Guy starts playing soft, bluesy chords. The Teenager roasts a marshmallow on a bent coat hanger over the heater grate.
James's shoulders finally drop. The knot in his stomach unravels. He looks at the blue footprints ending at the base of the heater.
<center>JAMES</center>
Who does this?
<center>OLD WOMAN</center>
Does it matter? Eat a marshmallow.
She hands him a charred, gooey lump on a napkin. He takes it. It tastes of propane and sugar. It's perfect.
Simon watches him, his expression soft, vulnerable.
<center>SIMON</center>
I missed you.
He says it over the guitar, over the roar of the heater.
<center>JAMES</center>
I'm still a mess, Simon. I'm unemployed. I'm wearing dress shoes in a blizzard.
<center>SIMON</center>
I know.
<center>JAMES</center>
I can't offer you anything right now.
<center>SIMON</center>
I have a job. I have a truck. I have heat. I don't need you to offer me things. I just need you to stop running.
James looks from the glowing heater to Simon's face. His knee presses against Simon's. A grounding wire.
<center>JAMES</center>
Okay. I'll stop running.
Simon smiles, a slight quirk of his mouth. He reaches out, takes James's gloved hand, and squeezes it once, hard.
<center>SIMON</center>
Good.
EXT. COURTYARD - LATER
The light has faded from grey to a bruised purple. The Guitar Guy and Teenager are gone. The Old Woman is asleep.
<center>SIMON</center>
We should go. Heater runs out of fuel soon.
<center>JAMES</center>
Yeah.
They stand, stiff but settled.
EXT. ALLEY - DUSK
They emerge from the courtyard. The wind hits them instantly, stripping the warmth away. James shivers violently.
<center>SIMON</center>
Truck's parked on Albert. Heated seats.
<center>JAMES</center>
Sounds like heaven.
They walk side-by-side, arms brushing with every step.
EXT. STREET - DUSK
They reach the street. James's phone BUZZES in his pocket. He ignores it. It BUZZES again. And again. A sustained, alarming vibration.
He stops, frowning, and pulls it out. The screen is painfully bright in the gloom.
THREE MISSED CALLS - MOM.
And a text message.
He reads it. The blood drains from his face. The cold that washes over him now has nothing to do with the wind. The warmth, the hope, the marshmallow—it all evaporates.
Simon stops a few feet ahead and turns back, seeing James's face. The playfulness is gone from his voice.
<center>SIMON</center>
Jules?
James looks up. The streetlights flicker. The world feels silent, heavy, expectant.
<center>SIMON</center>
(CONT'D)
What is it?
Simon steps closer, reaching out.
James can't speak. He just holds up the phone.
ON THE PHONE SCREEN
The text message is stark and final.
BACK TO SCENE
At the far end of the street, a BLACK CAR turns the corner. It's too long, too dark. Its headlights are off.
It moves slowly, crawling like a predator, straight toward them.
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