INT. DINER-EVENING
ANDREW BEAL, a chubby man with blond stubble and a ragged hairline, sits alone at the corner table. His ragged t-shirt sports the local football team and his unfashionable jeans don’t set him apart from the usual 6 p.m. dinner crowd that usually meanders into Joe’s on a Thursday night. He avoids eye contact and conversation, only looking up as the young waitress comes to refill his drink.
WAITRESS
Hello sir. Bonnie left but I can help you out if you’re ready for your check. Oh! Well hey And.uh, Pasto—
ANDREW
(Interrupting)
Its okay kid. I dropped the title a while ago. You look familiar though, who are yaw again? Was it Laurelle?
LAURELLE
Yes! You used to talk to my father a lot, deacon bass. You know he still preaches every Wednesday night. You’re welcome to come by this week if you have the ti—
ANDREW
(Cutting her off again, turning back to his food)
No disrespect Hun, your dad was a good preacher and an even better man. But I didn’t forget the location of the church. Don’t expect to see me there any time soon.
Laurelle drops the check, awkwardly picking up the empty dishes as she scurries off back to the kitchen.
Andrew swallows the last bits of a tuna sandwich, and grabs his jacket before dropping a meager tip on the table.
-EXT. DINER-
ANDREW shuffles towards the intersecting street corner, whistling an old rock tune. They are familiar steps towards Euclid Street. He passes through a steep, winding neighborhood, noticing the same grey-blue house on the corner that’s needed a paint job for as long as he can remember. He continues on, passing houses in various states of repair. As he cuts through a nearby intersection, a large green van with “HEARN’S MOVING MEN” painted on the side speeds by, the back door slightly open. A small brown box drops out into the middle of the street.
He stops whistling abruptly, bending over to pick up the box. He recognizes the address, its Judah’s house. Andrew’s mind is flooded with images of the home, of the crooked stairs that lead to the falling porch. He remembers the sound of the rusty screen door that always told of a visitor before they could announce themselves.
The van continues forward, the driver blasting his music, unaware of Andrew's cursing and gestures.
ANDREW
(Standing in the middle of the road)
I guess the old man was right about the dream, ha. Yeah that’s the name, “Clarke”. Welcome to Kirkville kid.
A horn hunks loudly in the background.
DRIVER
Move the hell out of the road you nut!
Andrew looks up, waving his arm as he passes in front of the car to the other street.
DRIVER
(After seeing Andrew’s face)
Oh man, I’m sorry pastor. I—
ANDREW
Yeah don’t worry about it kid. Why don’t you skedaddle while you’re still ahead eh?
The driver pulls off. Andrew runs his hands through his wind blown hair and heads across the street toward Judah’s home.
He finally reaches the front yard and steps around several old lawn decorations, only to stumble up the steps after tripping over a stump in the ground. He knocks on the door a few times to make himself known before turning the front door knob. The door gives enough for him to step his head inside.
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