SOUND of steady SPRING RAIN drumming against a large, grimy window. The cavernous room echoes with the SCRAPE of chairs on a scuffed wooden floor.
CLOSE ON a single, small THUMBTACK held between a determined thumb and forefinger.
PULL BACK to reveal TRACEY (10), a firecracker of energy, perched precariously on a folding chair. She stretches, pinning a chaotic drawing—an explosion of purple and orange crayon—to a vast, empty corkboard.
Across the room, NATHAN (9), quiet and observant, stands on his own chair. He strains on his tiptoes, his small arm extended.
Nathan grunts, his fingertips just brushing the bottom edge of a printed poster. His sock is bunched uncomfortably inside his boot.
He wiggles his foot, which only makes it worse.
She hops down, nearly tripping over a stack of old newspapers, but catches her balance. She always does.
WILLOW (17), mature and steady, looks up from a table where she's arranging felt pens into neat, colorful rows.
She smiles, but her eyes are serious.
Nathan finally gets the poster straight and hops down, his knee knocking a table leg with a dull THUD.
She tosses him a blue marker.
She makes air quotes with a tiny smirk. Nathan catches the marker, liking the cool plastic and the chemical smell of possibility. He wanders over to a large sheet of butcher paper, the permanent smell of DAMP WOOD clinging to the air.
The rain drums harder. The dim afternoon light gets dimmer.
The main door CREAKS open.
CARSON (30s), earnest but with a tiredness around his eyes, steps inside, shaking water from an old canvas jacket.
He carries a battered briefcase that has seen better days. He sets it on the table. MARK (11), already seated, fiddles with a piece of string.
Carson pulls folders from his briefcase. Just papers. No secrets.
He gestures around the room, taking in the peeling paint, the dusty stage, the flickering fluorescent lights.
Nathan holds his blue marker, quiet.
Willow hears him.
Carson nods, making a note on a legal pad.
MS. BEVERLY (70s), who arrived quietly, clears her throat. She holds a chipped mug of tea. Her eyes are kind but have seen it all.
A hush falls over the kids. Even Mark stops fiddling with his string. Nathan feels a familiar hollow ache.
The conversation shifts. Words like "funding streams" and "governance models" float through the air.
AT NATHAN'S EYE-LEVEL - He stops listening to the words and starts watching the adults.
He sees Carson run a hand through his hair. A nervous habit. He sees Willow's gaze flit from Carson to the dusty clock on the wall. A tight line forms between her eyebrows.
Carson hesitates. Just for a beat. But Nathan sees it.
He picks up a pen and starts twirling it between his fingers. Nathan recognizes the move. It's Carson's "I'm worried" twirl.
An uneasy thrum replaces the hopeful energy in the room.
Carson stops twirling the pen. He sets it down carefully. He looks from Willow to Ms. Beverly, then his gaze sweeps across the kids. When it lands on Nathan, his eyes hold a flicker of fear.
The silence stretches, thick and heavy. The RAIN drums on, relentless.
Nathan looks at the scuffed floor, at a water stain spreading on the ceiling. He hadn't noticed how bad it was until now. It isn't just old. It's crumbling.
Carson forces a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
Ms. Beverly leans forward, her voice very quiet.
Carson flinches. A sharp, involuntary movement. He shoots a quick glare at Ms. Beverly, a silent warning.
Too late. The word hangs in the air.
Tracey gasps, her eyes wide as she connects the dots.
Carson opens his mouth, then closes it. His silence is a confession. The hope in the room evaporates, replaced by a cold dread.
CLOSE ON NATHAN'S FACE. Small and pale.
His eyes move from Carson's defeated expression, to Willow averting her gaze, and finally up to the water stain on the ceiling. He sees the cracks in the building are also the cracks in their dream.
SOUND of the rain, washing everything away.
Share This Script
