A late October hellscape. The world is rendered in muddy browns and slate greys. SKELETAL ASPEN TREES, their white bark peeling, stand guard over a forest floor plastered with wet, decaying leaves.
The air is thick with the smell of rot and damp earth.
SOUND: A low, mournful WIND whistles through the bare branches. The wet SUCK and SQUELCH of mud.
SHAWN (17, but looks older, hollowed-out) sits on a log that is more moss than wood. His trousers are soaked through. His posture is a study in collapse, elbows heavy on his knees.
He stares, utterly vacant, at a JAGGED ROCK half-buried in the trail. A white streak of quartz runs through it. He hasn't moved in a long time.
Ten feet away, JORY (17, a bundle of nervous energy) holds the reins of two bored QUARTER HORSES. He bounces on the balls of his feet, a constant, jittery motion.
Shawn doesn’t look up. His voice is flat, a dropped stone.
Jory pulls the brim of his hat down, shielding his eyes from a glare that isn't there. The sky is a uniform sheet of bruised purple.
Shawn’s gaze drifts from the rock to the frayed hem of Jory’s poncho.
Jory lets out a long, theatrical SIGH. He ties the reins to a flimsy sapling, then walks over, his boots making obscene sucking sounds in the mud. He stands directly in front of Shawn, blocking the view of the quartz rock.
Jory kicks the dirt. A spray of muddy pebbles skitters across Shawn’s boots. Shawn looks at them. Makes no move to brush them off.
Shawn’s voice is thin, swallowed by the vast, quiet grove.
Jory freezes, his face a mask of confusion.
Jory lets out a sharp, incredulous BARK of a laugh.
Jory paces a tight, agitated circle. Squish, suck, squish.
Shawn closes his eyes. The darkness is a relief.
Jory crouches down, trying to meet Shawn’s gaze.
Jory stands, defeated. He brushes mud from his hands.
Jory stomps over to the horses. SOUND of him rummaging through saddlebags: the CLANK of tin, MUTTERING, a soft CURSE.
A single, yellow aspen leaf detaches from a high branch. It spirals down, a slow, lazy descent, landing perfectly on the brim of Shawn's hat. He feels its negligible weight like an anchor.
Jory returns, thrusting a dented, label-less tin can at Shawn.
Shawn takes the can. It's cold, slimy. He looks inside. A congealed mass of beans in a reddish-brown sauce the color of mud. A spoon is stuck upright in the center, a monument to culinary despair.
Jory takes a bite from his own can, grimacing.
Shawn lifts the spoon. His hand trembles, not from cold, but from a profound lack of will. He stares at the beans.
Shawn SIGHS. He lowers the spoon. The motion is jerky, uncontrolled. The spoon CLANGS against the rim of the can.
A GLOB of cold bean sauce catapults through the air.
CLOSE ON SHAWN’S FACE as the glob lands squarely on his cheek. It slides, a slow, sticky, cold trail of humiliation, down his jaw before DRIPPING onto his collar.
He freezes. The sensation is revolting.
Jory stops chewing, his mouth full. He stares at the bean stain. At Shawn’s dead eyes.
A GIGGLE escapes him. Then another. It builds into a helpless, hysterical LAUGH that shakes his whole body.
Shawn doesn't wipe it. He just sits there, the sauce congealing on his skin. This is it. Rock bottom.
Something inside Shawn SNAPS. Not loud. A tiny, dry twig. The sheer indignity of it all.
He slowly raises a hand. Wipes the cold slime from his face, smearing it onto his filthy sleeve. The friction is real. The anger—a tiny, flickering spark—is real.
Shawn looks at the can. Tilts it. Watches the sludge move.
Shawn sets the can down. He takes a deep, stinging breath. Places his hands on his knees. He pushes.
His muscles groan in protest. His knees POP, the sound sharp and loud in the quiet grove.
He rises. Unfolding slowly, swaying as he finds his balance.
Jory watches, spoon halfway to his mouth, not daring to speak.
Shawn is standing. The world tilts, then corrects. He looks down at the log. It's just a piece of wood.
A wide grin spreads across Jory’s face. He tosses his empty can into the brush.
Shawn takes a step. His boot pulls free from the mud with a loud, wet POP. An ugly sound, but a sound of movement.
He walks to his horse, a roan mare named BUCKET. He strokes her nose.
Bucket SNORTS, nudging his pocket for a treat he doesn't have.
Shawn mounts up. The saddle is cold, his back aches, but he is vertical. He is moving.
Jory pulls out a crumpled, grease-stained piece of paper that might be a map. He squints at it.
Shawn nudges Bucket forward. The horse GROANS, but she moves. One hoof in front of the other. Clop, squish, clop, squish.
They ride out of the aspen grove, leaving the empty log behind in the gathering gloom.
The wind picks up. The first drops of freezing rain begin to fall, TAPPING against the brim of Shawn's hat.
Shawn wipes his ear without breaking stride. He keeps riding into the grey.
FADE TO BLACK.
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