FADE IN: INT. HALVORSEN HOUSE, KITCHEN, MILLWOOD PA, 5:47 AM A small kitchen. Linoleum. A round analog clock above the refrigerator with a gold rim. The minute hand makes the small click that minute hands make when no one is listening for it. JAMES HALVORSEN (52) stands at the counter in a flannel shirt and grey sweatpants, eating cold meatloaf out of a Tupperware. He is lean. The hair is short and grey at the temples. He has the careful posture of a man who once carried weight on his shoulders and remembers the load. The furnace cycles in the basement. A click, a low rush. Halvorsen rinses his fork at the sink. Places it in the dish rack next to two coffee mugs. Picks up a worn leather messenger bag from the kitchen chair. Slings it over his shoulder. He looks at the ceiling. The bedroom is up there. He listens for a moment. There is no sound. He goes out the side door without turning on the upstairs light. EXT. MILLWOOD STREETS, MILLWOOD PA, 6:14 AM