SOUND: The gentle drip of a coffee maker
The room is dark, save for the cool, pre-dawn light filtering through a window over the sink.
EDDIE (70s), sharp-eyed and pragmatic in a worn flannel robe, nurses a ceramic mug. His hands are stiff with age. He stares out the window, his focus absolute.
ANGLE ON EDDIE'S POV - THROUGH THE WINDOW
Mist clings to the ground of a spacious backyard, bordered by a dense line of maple trees, their leaves a burnt orange. A small creek cuts through the property.
In the mist, a SILHOUETTE kneels by the creek bed.
BACK TO SCENE
Eddie watches, unblinking. The figure isn't a thief. It's methodical. It plunges a gleaming SILVER INSTRUMENT into the muddy bank.
Eddie sets his mug down. He ignores a heavy-duty flashlight on the counter. Instead, he picks up a small, leather-bound NOTEBOOK and a pen. Old habits.
The air is crisp, Eddie's breath fogging in front of him as he steps onto the back porch.
The screen door SLAMS shut behind him. The sound is like a gunshot in the morning stillness.
The figure jumps, fumbling a glass vial. It's a YOUNG RESEARCHER (late 20s), wearing a jacket with a prominent university logo. He looks panicked.
Eddie walks down the porch steps, his gaze fixed on the instrument in the young man's hand.
The Young Researcher looks down at the soil core he's extracted. A perfect cylinder of dark earth. He looks back at Eddie, flustered.
Eddie stops a few feet away. The phrase hangs in the air.
The Young Researcher has no answer.
The same street, now in the flat light of a fall afternoon. A sterile white research VAN idles by the curb, its tinted windows betraying nothing. The neighborhood feels tense, under observation.
SARAH (70s), clutching a bundle of mail, stands by her mailbox, her eyes locked on the van. She has the grounded presence of someone who has lived here for fifty years.
Eddie walks over, joining her.
He leaves Sarah and walks directly toward the van. Purposefully.
He stops beside the driver's side window. After a moment, it rolls down with a low electronic WHIR.
DR. LIN (40s) sits in the driver's seat. Her eyes are tired, but her focus is sharp as she stares at a tablet covered in spreadsheets. She doesn't look at Eddie.
That gets her attention. She looks up from her tablet, her expression a mix of surprise and irritation.
Dr. Lin sighs, rubbing her temples. The gesture of a woman at her limit.
She studies him, really sees him for the first time. A flicker of academic curiosity behind the exhaustion.
He gestures back toward Sarah, who is still watching them.
Dr. Lin glances at Sarah, then down at a map on her tablet. The rigid set of her shoulders softens, just a fraction.
SOUND: Wind picks up, scattering a flurry of dry leaves across the van's windshield.
For a long moment, the only sound is the low hum of the engine. Dr. Lin stares through the leaf-strewn glass, processing.
She holds his gaze, then gives a small, concessionary nod.
The window rolls up.
The white van pulls away from the curb. As it passes, the driver—Dr. Lin—gives a small, almost imperceptible wave.
Eddie walks back to Sarah.
Eddie looks past her, toward his own backyard, where the creek holds its secrets under the mud.
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