The wind is a physical presence. It shrieks down streets empty of all life, scouring the pavement. Forty below.
Traffic lights swing violently on their wires, signaling to no one.
DRAY (late teens), dangerously underdressed, shuffles along the sidewalk. He keeps his center of gravity low, fighting a gust that tries to throw him into the intersection. He wears a Jets jersey over hoodies and a flannel shirt. It’s not enough.
He ducks into the alcove of an abandoned department store. The glass doors are papered over with faded liquidation ads.
He presses his back against the brick. He flinches as it sucks the warmth right out of him. He stomps his feet, trying to feel them. A dull THUD-THUD. Nothing. The numbness is a ticking clock.
He checks his pockets. A lighter that sparks but won’t flame. A shattered stick of gum. A transit pass with a zero balance.
He looks up at the enclosed SKYWALK connecting two buildings. A SECURITY GUARD patrols the heated tube, looking down at the street with bored disdain. Locked tight.
A QUICK SERIES OF SHOTS:
A) INT. LIBRARY - NIGHT (MOMENTS AGO)
A librarian gently but firmly gestures for Dray to leave. It’s closing time.
B) INT. MALL FOOD COURT - NIGHT (MOMENTS AGO)
A security guard stands over Dray, who is trying to look inconspicuous at a dirty table. The guard points to the exit.
C) INT. TIM HORTONS - NIGHT (MOMENTS AGO)
A manager mops the floor around Dray’s feet, forcing him out the door and back into the lethal cold.
BACK TO SCENE:
Dray pushes off the wall. He has to keep moving. He turns down a dark side street, heading for the exhaust vents behind the city arena.
The wind here is a solid wall. He lowers his head, chin tucked into a scarf already crusted with frozen breath.
And then he sees it.
Not the harsh orange of a streetlight. A soft, SICKLY YELLOW GLOW, pulsating from behind a dumpster overflowing with cardboard.
He slows. His boots CRUNCH on the hard-packed snow. The sound is too loud.
Dray rounds the dumpster.
A man, SPOON (60s), sits perfectly still in a cheap plastic lawn chair. He wears a patched-up parka, a toque pulled low, and ski goggles that reflect the yellow light.
Dray looks around. There is no door. Just the alley, the brick wall of the arena, the open street.
Spoon points a gloved finger at a specific spot on the asphalt. Dray, too cold to argue, steps into the indicated spot.
He looks for a fire barrel. There's no smoke. No smell of burning. Just a strange, humid smell. Like a greenhouse.
And then he sees it. The source of the light.
Growing from a crack in the asphalt is a PLANT. It’s the size of a cabbage, its leaves thick and fleshy, pulsing with veins that glow with that sickly yellow light.
It radiates a palpable HEAT.
Dray crouches down, mesmerized. The warmth washes over him, an incredible, life-saving wave. His ears burn as blood rushes back. He pulls off his gloves. His fingers are red and raw. He holds them out to the plant.
Dray looks closer. Around the base of the plant, the asphalt isn't just cracked; it's a MUSHY, GREY PASTE. The plant’s roots visibly churn the slurry.
A tiny pebble of aggregate pops out of the mush and rolls away.
He feels dizzy. Hypothermia setting in. This has to be a dream.
Spoon reaches into his coat, pulls out a bag of Salt & Vinegar chips. He offers it to Dray.
Dray takes a chip. It tastes sharp, salty. Real. He chews slowly, the warmth from the plant making his jaw ache.
The wind HOWLS at the mouth of the alley, but here, in the plant's radius, the air is still. A bubble of silence and warmth.
Dray rubs his face. The thawing is painful now, pins and needles stabbing his cheeks.
The words fall out of him. He hates how weak they sound. Spoon doesn't look at him. He just nods at the asphalt.
They sit in silence. Dray sits fully on the ground. The pavement is warm, dry. Impossible. He leans back against the dumpster.
A POLICE CRUISER rolls past the alley entrance. Its red and blue lights wash over them, clashing with the plant's yellow glow. The cruiser slows... then speeds up. It doesn't stop.
Dray lets out a breath he was holding.
Dray looks at the "garden." The plant seems to flare brighter, casting long, warped shadows. The shadow of the dumpster looks like a crouching animal.
Dray reaches out, touches one of the thick, yellow leaves. It feels like leather. It VIBRATES against his fingertip, a low HUM traveling up his arm. It feels like an engine.
Dray pulls his hand back.
Dray stares at the grey slush around the roots. He scoots back an inch.
Dray looks at Spoon. His eyes, visible behind the goggles, are pale and tired, but completely sane.
Dray feels a strange lightness in his chest. Not hope. Leverage. A tiny advantage in a rigged game.
Spoon tosses him the nearly empty bag of chips.
Spoon nods towards the tight cluster of leaves in the plant’s center. Dray settles in, listening to the plant’s HUM and the distant SCRAPE of a snowplow.
He watches the roots ripple. The grey paste bubbles.
Dray looks at the plant.
The plant doesn’t answer. It just HUMS, louder now. A single drop of yellow sap oozes from a leaf, hitting the pavement with a SIZZLE, melting another inch of the city. The circle of warmth widens.
Dray closes his eyes, letting the impossible heat soak into his bones.
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