Cold Soak

The propane regulator is frozen, the bank account is empty, and Leo is thinking about signing a contract that might get him killed. It’s -35 in the bush.

Introduction

This script adaptation of "Cold Soak" serves as a practical demonstration of narrative transformation, illustrating how a rich prose story is distilled into the visual and auditory language of cinema. It highlights key principles of digital literacy in storytelling, specifically focusing on the translation of internal character states into observable actions and dialogue, a crucial skill for anyone learning to adapt narratives across different media platforms. The exercise underscores the power of visual storytelling and the precise, economical nature of screenwriting.

The Script

EXT. WINTER WILDERNESS - AFTERNOON

LEO (34, lean, with the weariness of a man who's seen too much) swings an axe.

The axe head bounces off the frozen birch log with a dull CLUNK. It doesn't split.

A shockwave travels up the hickory handle and into his wrists.

He swears, breath puffing out in a frantic white cloud that vanishes instantly.

His thumb is numb inside the stiff, frozen leather glove.

The light is already dying, bleeding out into an oppressive blue.

The shadows of the jack pines stretch across the snow like bruises.

Leo swings again. Harder this time. The wood CRACKS.

A sharp pistol-shot sound that echoes off the frozen lake behind him.

One piece of fuel.

Inside the grey canvas tent, METAL SCREECHES on metal. TIA (32, pragmatic, with dark circles under her eyes) wrestles with cot legs.

Leo stacks the wood. His knee CLICKS when he straightens up.

He rubs the joint through layers of Gore-Tex and fleece, staring at the lake.

It's a flat white sheet, featureless except for wind-sculpted drifts.

INT. TENT - CONTINUOUS

The zipper HISSES.

Regulator's frozen.

Leo looks at the small woodpile, then at the propane tank sitting in the snow.

I told you not to leave it on the sled deck.

I didn't leave it. You packed the sled, Leo.

Leo walks over. The snow SQUEAKS beneath his boots.

He crouches by the tank. The brass fitting is frosted over white.

He pulls his glove off, shoving it under his armpit, and grabs the brass with his bare hand.

The cold BITES immediately. His skin sticks for a split second.

Tia watches him from the tent opening.

Leo breathes on the regulator. The warm air condenses instantly.

He twists. It's seized.

Use the pliers.

I don't need the pliers.

You're going to strip the thread.

I'm not going to strip the damn thread, Tia.

Leo twists. His hand slips. Knuckles rake across the jagged edge of the tank collar.

Skin tears. Blood wells up, bright red and startling against the dirty white snow.

Leo.

I got it.

He grabs the Leatherman from his belt, unfolds the pliers with shaking fingers, and wrenches the fitting.

It gives with a SCREECH. Gas HISSES.

He connects the line to the heater inside the tent and cranks the valve.

The pilot light CLICKS, CLICKS, CLICKS. Then a WOOF of blue flame.

Leo sits back in the snow, shoving his bleeding hand back into the glove.

The stinging starts now, a throb matching his heartbeat.

Tia doesn't go back inside. She stands, arms crossed over her puffy coat.

She looks at him, her expression unreadable.

Your phone buzzed.

Leo's face tightens, a flicker of apprehension in his eyes.

Yeah?

It was on the crate. I moved it so it wouldn't freeze.

The wind RATTLES the tops of the spruce trees.

Notification came up. 'GardaWorld Recruitment'.

Leo stands up, brushing snow off his knees. He doesn't look at her.

He looks at the frozen lake.

Just spam.

It wasn't spam, Leo. It was a contract offer. Subject line said 'Tier 2 Static Security - Erbil'.

Leo says nothing. He picks up the wood he'd split and walks past her into the tent.

INT. TENT - CONTINUOUS

The heat is already building near the ceiling, but the floor is still an icebox.

Leo drops the wood by the stove and sits on the cot. The canvas walls are translucent, glowing with the dying daylight.

Tia follows him in. The space is tight, eight by ten.

She zips the door shut, cutting off the wind. The silence RUSHES back in, louder than before.

You said you were done.

She sits on the cooler opposite him. Her eyes have those dark circles she gets when working doubles.

It's just an inquiry.

Leo avoids her gaze, picking at a loose thread on his glove.

Erbil is Iraq, Leo.

It's Kurdistan. It's stable. It's safer than downtown Winnipeg on a Friday.

Don't give me the briefing. I don't want the briefing.

She pulls off her orange toque, static lifting her dark hair.

We talked about this. You said you were going to finish the electrical ticket. You said you were staying.

The apprenticeship pays eighteen bucks an hour, Tia. Eighteen. I made more than that ten years ago.

We're doing fine.

We're not doing fine. The truck needs a transmission. The roof on the shack is leaking. Grocery bill is up forty percent. I'm putting groceries on a credit card.

Leo leans forward, elbows on knees. His injured hand throbs inside the glove.

This contract is six months. Six months and I clear eighty grand. Tax-free if I stay out of country long enough. That pays off the truck, fixes the roof, and clears the cards.

And what's the cost?

She looks at him, her eyes dark, almost black.

You come back and you don't sleep for another year? You start checking the perimeter of the grocery store again?

I'm fine.

You just almost broke your hand fighting a propane tank because you forgot to pack it right. You're vibrating, Leo. I can feel it from here.

I'm cold. That's shivering.

It's not the cold.

Tia stands up, hunching over because the roof is low. She starts unrolling her sleeping bag.

Her movements are aggressive, buckles SNAP.

You want to go because you're bored. You miss it. You miss being important.

Leo stiffens, then stands abruptly. He takes two steps, hitting the canvas wall.

It's not about being important. It's about being competent. Out here... I'm just a guy failing to fix a transmission. I'm a guy who can't pay for the dentist. Over there, I know what I am. I have a function.

You have a function here!

Her voice CRACKS. She stops unrolling the bag.

You're my partner. You're supposed to be building a life with me. Not pausing it every two years to go play soldier in the desert.

It's not playing soldier. It's work. It's the only work I'm actually good at.

Then learn something else!

She SHOUTS it. The sound dies instantly against the heavy canvas.

You're thirty-four years old. Your knees are shot. Your back is messed up. You can't do this forever. What happens when you're forty? When you're fifty?

I'll worry about that then.

I'm worrying about it now!

She sits back down heavily on the cooler. She puts her face in her hands.

I can't do the waiting again, Leo. I can't do the nights where I don't know if you're dead or just out of range. I did it for three tours. I'm done.

The heater HUMS. A steady, monotonous drone.

The light outside is gone now. It is pitch black.

The only light is the blue glow of the propane flame and the little battery lantern hanging from the ridge pole.

Leo takes his glove off. The blood has dried tacky and dark across his knuckles. A jagged line.

It's six months. Just one rotation. Set us up for good.

Tia doesn't look up. Her voice is muffled by her hands.

It's never just one. It's the money, then it's the guys, then it's the feeling. It's an addiction, Leo. You're chasing the high.

I'm chasing solvency.

We have food. We have heat. We have a roof. That's solvency. You want excess. And you're willing to trade yourself for it.

Leo has no answer. He looks at the rifle case in the corner, his Tikka .308.

He likes the weight of it, the mechanical simplicity.

I haven't signed it yet.

Tia looks up. Her eyes are dry now, resigned.

But you're going to.

I don't know.

You are. I can see it. You're already gone. You're just waiting for the flight manifest.

She stands up and moves past him to the stove. She starts unpacking the food bin.

Tin cans. Spam. Bannock she'd made yesterday.

I'm making dinner. Don't help. Just... sit there.

Leo sits on the cot. The tension in the tent is thick.

He watches her hands move, efficient and practiced. She cuts the Spam into perfect cubes.

She doesn't look at him.

Leo opens his mouth, then closes it. His fists clench on his knees.

His phone BUZZES again. He doesn't check it.

He stares at the black screen. The battery is at 12%.

Pass me the water.

Leo reaches for the jug. The water inside is slushy.

He hands it to her. Their fingers brush. Hers are warm. His are ice.

You need to clean that cut.

She points at his hand with the knife.

It's fine.

Infection sets in fast out here. Don't be an idiot.

She tosses him the first aid kit. The red nylon pouch hits his chest. He catches it.

He opens it up – the smell of iodine and adhesive. He dabs the antiseptic on the cut.

It BURNS. A clean, sharp pain.

They eat in silence. The Spam is salty, hot. The bannock is dense.

Outside, the wind has picked up. It is HOWLING now, slapping the canvas against the frame.

The world shrinks down to this little bubble of blue light and tension.

If you go. I might not be here when you get back.

Leo stops chewing. His face tightens, jaw clenching.

Tia.

I mean it. I'm not a pause button you can press. I'm thirty-two. I want kids. I want a partner who is physically present. If you go to Erbil... you're choosing that life over this one.

I'm doing it for this one.

No. You're doing it for you. Be honest. Just once.

Leo swallows, hard. His voice is barely audible.

Maybe. Maybe I am.

Tia nods slowly. She sets her plate down on the floor.

Well. At least that's the truth.

She climbs into her sleeping bag, zipping it all the way up to her chin, turning her back to him.

Put more wood in the stove before you sleep. It's going to drop to forty below tonight.

Yeah.

Leo sits there for a long time. The propane heater HISSES. The wind SCREAMS.

He looks at his phone. 10% battery remaining.

He could delete the email. He could email them back right now and say no.

He thumbs the screen. The light is harsh in the dark tent.

He hovers over the 'Reply' button. His thumb hovers. The scar tissue on his knuckle is white.

He turns the screen off. He doesn't delete it. He puts the phone in his pocket, against his thigh.

He gets up and feeds a birch log into the stove. The fire CATCHES, CRACKLING.

He watches the flames for a minute, then turns off the lantern.

Darkness takes the tent, except for the orange glow from the stove vent.

He crawls into his bag on the other cot. The canvas walls SHUDDER in the wind.

It is going to be a long, cold night.

What We Can Learn

This adaptation underscores the fundamental shift in narrative delivery when moving from a literary text to a visual medium. It emphasizes the need to externalize internal conflict and emotion, transforming a reader's imagined experience into a tangible, observable reality for an audience. The exercise demonstrates how environmental details, once descriptive prose, become integral components of the visual and auditory landscape, serving as powerful metaphors for character states and narrative tension. This adaptation demonstrates the critical challenge of translating internal narration and abstract emotional states from prose into observable, concrete actions and dialogue for a screenplay. For instance, Leo's 'stomach dropped' becomes a 'face tightens, a flicker of apprehension,' while his desire to 'explain' transforms into him 'opening his mouth, then closing it, fists clenching.' It highlights how cinematic storytelling relies on subtext, where characters' true intentions and feelings are conveyed through their physical reactions, vocal inflections, and the unspoken weight behind their words, rather than explicit exposition. The process also reveals how prose's fluid pacing must be restructured into distinct, visually digestible beats, adhering to constraints like the '4-line rule' to maintain narrative momentum and clarity. From a technical and media literacy perspective, this adaptation showcases the foundational elements of professional screenplay formatting using Fountain syntax. It illustrates the importance of concise action lines, the strategic embedding of sound cues (e.g., 'CLUNK,' 'SCREECH,' 'HOWLING') to build atmosphere, and the precise introduction of characters. Furthermore, it exemplifies the 'invisible technique' of camera direction, where specific details are brought into focus through deliberate paragraph breaks rather than explicit camera jargon. This method teaches aspiring writers to think visually and audibly, understanding how each formatted element guides the director, actors, and sound designers in bringing the story to life, ultimately enhancing the overall production value and audience immersion.