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walkwithheroesI wrote this for my college's first literature magazine last December. It was put into the magazine along with one other play. This one won the Editor's Choice Award. The basic plot is fairly simple: it's a one act play that has two terminally ill patients discussing one of their future funeral. I thought the idea of the two view points would be interesting to write. The result was this play: a discussion between Tom and Lena about Tom's funeral, when he is actually the one with the greatest chance of actually surviving longer. The gang in my Creative Writing class called it, "darkly funny" with characters who were "funny in a place where humor shouldn't exist."
The one-act play Nine to Twenty-Four Months
Nine to Twenty-Four Months by Nichole Bellow
CHARACTERS
Tom
Lena
Nurse
TIME: The present
SETTING: St. Anne’s Cancer Center; a private room
A private room in a hospital or clinic; it is very white and clean. The light is bright but slightly harsh. Off in a corner there is a dresser, and on top of the dresser are two “get well soon” cards. There are two doors: one directly in front of the bed and one off to the right. An IV pole/saline stand is off in a corner, unused at the moment. A large window is to the right of the bed; there is a rather ugly sofa sitting under it. A balloon that is pathetically deflating is tied to a chair, which is beside the hospital bed. Sitting in the bed is TOM, age 28. He is an average looking guy, wearing pjs and a black skull cap. Tom comes off as rather serious, but sarcastic at the same time – especially in his speech. In front of him is a bedside table that has several papers on it. Tom is working like he’s writing the next great American novel.
The door across from the bed opens. LENA, age 15, rolls into room on a wheelchair. She is dressed in oversized hospital scrubs and a wool cap. She is cheerful but slightly off, with an underlying sadness in her voice. Lena is unusually thin and small for her age. Every now and again, her right hand twitches. Aside from her illness, Lena looks like every high school sweetheart every guy has ever dreamed of having.
LENA: How’s it going, Butch?
TOM: (without looking up from his writing) Not bad, Sundance.
LENA: Come on; get your pale, bony self out of bed. We need to find another one of these so we can reenact the chariot race from Ben-Hur.
TOM: (glances up) Who’d you mug?
LENA: (offended) No one! I traded with Arty. He has a broken leg. Kid has seizures once a week and he’s still taking the stairs. So, for his own safety I brought him to his room and we switched: I got the chair (she pops an awkward half-wheelie) and he got twenty bucks and a Playboy that I stole from the third floor janitor.
TOM: Don’t tell me about your crimes. Wait, the janitor has Playboy? (beat) No. I will not be sucked in. I meant the scrubs.
Lena rolls the wheelchair to beside Tom’s bed. She gives his papers a long look.
LENA: (distracted) Locker room. Interns are so clueless. The scrubs are much better than what those Nurse Nazis usually have me wear.
Lena suddenly takes the papers off the top of Tom’s pile. Tom pushes away his bedside table, jumps out of his bed, flails, but manages to stand correctly. There is a brief ‘fight’ in which Tom tries to get his papers back. However, Lena uses the wheelchair to get away from him. The fight ends with Tom, defeated, sinking into the chair that is beside his bed; in annoyance, he knocks the balloon away from himself. Lena moves her wheelchair back to the room’s door.
LENA: “I, Thomas Clarence Reynolds, being of sound mind and not so sound body…” Is this your will? (Tom nods solemnly) It sucks, dude.
TOM: What? That’s my will. It’s my funeral and these are my last requests. (Lena jumps out of the wheelchair and nearly falls over. Tom starts, Lena catches herself and stands straight up.) What? What?
LENA: Lillies? Closed coffin? Music by. . . (pause, gags) Jars of Clay and Amy Grant? Look, I know you’re sick. . .
TOM: I’m dying.
LENA: Did your taste go before you? This is crap. And it’s morbid to be writing about your funeral.
TOM: I have a malignant tumor in my heart. I was given two years, maybe. It’s already been six months. I just want things to be in order, Lena.
LENA: Yeah, but it’s boring. I’m not going to your white lily having, Christian pop music playing, boring as hell funeral. Spice it up!
TOM: It’s my funeral! I’m the one with the damn heart tumor.
LENA: Oh, I’m Tom and I have a heart tumor. So, my funeral has to be boring and I have to be morbid about it. ‘Cause clearly, I’m too good to reenact scenes from classic cinema with Lena! Even though she comes to see me every time I’m here despite her busy schedule and the threats from the Nurse Nazis and the Doctors of Doom. (beat, is completely serious) You should consider a fog machine instead of flowers.
TOM: Fog machine?
LENA: Fog machine. Picture it: (makes wide movement with hands) the family and friends enter to a room of mysterious fog. Where’s the coffin?
TOM: I don’t know, Lena, maybe at the actual funeral and not at a 1980s heavy metal concert?
LENA: Darth Vader’s theme plays as the fog clears to reveal – the closed coffin. You’d want to keep the fog machine on low, to set the mood.
TOM: Of course. (beat) Don’t you have someone else to bother?
LENA: Mr. Whitman doesn’t get out of his experiments . . . his chemo until two. I have time to kill. Besides, I can’t let you have an embarrassingly boring funeral.
TOM: I’m honored. But, it’s my funeral and –
LENA: For music, I’m thinking some classics, like Journey or The Eagles. And, you just gotta play “Freebird.” Something people can get their lighters out for. So, when it’s over they can take you outside and just burn you there. It’ll save a ton of cash.
TOM: You’re sick. Seriously, I think you have a mental problem of some kind. I don’t know, maybe you were dropped on the head as a kid or raised in a cult or something. But. You. Are. Sick.
LENA: I’m not sick. I just want people to remember.
TOM: Lena. I’m alright; really I’m just at the start and the experimental treatments seem to be working. I just want things in order, before . . . if, if. . . I get too sick. I’m not going anywhere. You can still bother me for a while. Promise.
Lena simply stares at him, almost like he’s grown another head. An awkward silence lasting a few moments follows.
TOM: Sorry. Uh, what else should my funeral have? Clowns?
LENA: Clowns, Tom? (beat) No, I think you should get someone to come to your funeral. Like, someone with a familiar face that people think they know, but can’t seem to place. Everyone will wonder who the person is, but this guy or girl won’t say.
TOM: Why would I want someone I don’t know at my funeral?
LENA: Mystery. Imagine it: (Tom groans; Lena spreads her arms out) family and friends are crying, when suddenly someone who looks familiar rushes through crowd and falls onto your coffin screaming out, “Why? He was so young, so alive. Why?”
Tom scoots his chair back, away from Lena.
LENA: “Why? Why?” (stops, looks back) Why did you move?
TOM: Because you’re crazy. (Lena stands, nearly falls, before balancing herself on the bed. Tom gets up from his chair, moving to beside her. He notices Lena’s right hand twitching.) Whoa, you okay? Sit.
LENA: (sits) I’m okay. Got up too fast.
TOM: You shouldn’t be acting like this. It’s too much for you. I’ll call a nurse –
LENA: No! Don’t.
TOM: Sure.
Tom helps Lena stand, before guiding her to the orange sofa. The two sit in a somewhat awkward silence for a few moments. Tom watches Lena. Lena is fascinated with the floor.
LENA: (looking up) We should discuss your clothes.
TOM: Says the girl in the stolen scrubs.
LENA: I meant what you’ll be buried in, idiot. I’m thinking pajamas. You’ll want to spend eternity comfortable. You can’t be comfortable in a suit, Tom. Maybe add some bunny slippers (She laughs; coughs into her left, non-twitching hand, wipes hand on the back of her shirt)
Tom stares at Lena’s face for a long moment then moves his gaze to the place on her shirt where she wiped her hand. Gently, Tom forces her to lean forward. Lena goes to stand, but Tom grabs her wrist and forces her to sit. Lena watches as Tom spits into his hand, before taking her left hand into his. He wipes her hand clean, trying to get rid of what she has coughed up.
TOM: Why aren’t you ever serious about this stuff? You laugh, and you tease, and you talk about playing “Freebird” at funerals, but you never take this seriously. I’m going to die. Mr. Whitman is going to die. Mr. Adams, who you play poker with every damn day, he’s going to die. Arty, he’s gonna die. You. . . You’re –
LENA: Don’t say it. Please, don’t.
TOM: You’re never sad. Why can’t you be sad? Be sad, Lena! Cry! Do something to show that you actually feel.
LENA: Why? What good does sadness do? It doesn’t change anything. Your bodies hate you and you’ll all still die. Everybody dies. Isn’t it better to be happy and enjoy our time? Being sad, funerals, that stuff is for those you leave behind. You should be happy, because when it ends – you won’t be sick and in pain anymore.
TOM: Lena. I’m sorry. (Tom slowly wraps Lena into a hug) Sometimes, I forget. You’re so up all the time, that I forget.
LENA: S’alright. (she pulls away) It’s always in the back of my head, so it works out.
TOM: Still want to wheelchair race?
Lena glances toward the room’s door. An older NURSE enters, looking rather putout. This is not the first time she’s caught Lena misbehaving. Tom turns to see the Nurse and jumps away from Lena. Lena groans.
LENA: Shit.
NURSE: Delilah Mary Magdalena.
LENA: Not the full name.
TOM: It makes you sound like a biblical whore.
LENA: (stepping on Tom’s bare foot) Shut up!
NURSE: You know better than this, Lena. We’ve been looking for you everywhere. Patients of different sexes aren’t allowed in a room together after six –
LENA: It’s one-thirty in the afternoon.
NURSE: And, the door is not allowed to be closed.
TOM: Are you suggesting –
LENA: You are sick, lady. We couldn’t even –
NURSE: I’m not suggesting anything, Mr. Reynolds. (to Lena) And you, young lady, are supposed to be using your wheelchair.
TOM: You said you got it from Arty.
LENA: I lied. I haven’t seen you in ages; because I’ve been . . . I’m better now, though. I wanted to see you. I wanted to get out of that room.
TOM: Were you the one . . . did you have the seizure while on the stairs? Are you having seizures?
NURSE: Lena should know better than to go wandering off. You’ve begun having issues with your motor skills. If you fell and Mr. Reynolds couldn’t help you, you could have been seriously hurt. Lena, you’re not as strong as you think. And you Tom, you know you should have gotten us the moment she came in. You’re like a child around her.
LENA: He’s the Butch to my Sundance. The Bert to my Ernie. The Felix to my Oscar. The –
NURSE: Ms. Magdalena . . . you and your parents have an appointment at two-thirty with Dr. Goff. I suggest you firstly return those scrubs, before going back to your own room and rest until then.
There is a long silence; Tom and Lena exchange nervous glances.
LENA: I don’t want to see Dr. Goff. I’ve only been coming here three months. They said I had between nine and eighteen. You’re not giving the treatments enough time. I. . .I-I don’t feel sick. (quickly again) I’m still fine! You want me to run a mile? I jumped earlier. Want me to jump? I -
NURSE: (gently) Delilah, you have a brain tumor. The treatments are experimental. Dr. Goff wants to meet with you and your parents, in case you need hospice. I’ll help you to your room.
Lena moves behind Tom. Tom looks from Lena to the nurse and back again.
TOM: (to Nurse) Could we have a minute?
NURSE: I’ll be at the Nurse’s Station down the hall. Make it quick. (exits)
Lena steps out behind Tom. She moves to the wheelchair and sits back into it. Tom watches her: her smile gone, her head hanging – this is not the Lena of earlier. Tom goes to Lena and kneels down in front of her.
TOM: In the two months I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you afraid.
LENA: (softly) I’m not afraid.
TOM: Yes, you are. I don’t like it, Lena. (taking her twitching hand) You won’t have to leave for a while. If they make you leave before you’re ready . . . we’ll do a wing wide protest. Imagine it: two seventy-somethings, charging the office of Dr. Goff, oxygen tanks trailing behind them. Followed by a thirteen year old with his wheelchair and stolen nudie mags. And me, a twenty-something college drop out. You’re needed here, so we won’t let you leave. Who else would play poker with Mr. Adams? Who else would sneak in cigars, just so Mr. Whitman can smell them? Who else would steal Playboy for Arty? Who else would make us forget that we’ll all be dead within the next two years?
LENA: It’s like a Hallmark moment in here. (moves wheelchair away from Tom)
TOM: Shut up. When you go back to your room, don’t let the Nurse Nazis see the coughed up blood you wiped on the back of your shirt. And don’t be scared of Dr. Goff.
LENA: I’m not.
TOM: Course not.
LENA: I just don’t want to go.
TOM: I know. I don’t want to either.
Lena steps out of the wheelchair and gently pushes it to Tom, who stops it with his hands.
LENA: I just won’t take the stairs. My own silent protest against . . . everything.
She smiles softly at him, before heading to the door.
TOM: Later, Sundance.
Lena turns to stare back at him for a moment.
LENA: See ya, Butch. (exits)
Tom stares after her for a moment. He sits down in the wheelchair. There is a beat, before he starts wheeling himself around his room, almost as if he’s practicing for a chariot race.
Blackout
The one-act play Nine to Twenty-Four Months
Nine to Twenty-Four Months by Nichole Bellow
CHARACTERS
Tom
Lena
Nurse
TIME: The present
SETTING: St. Anne’s Cancer Center; a private room
A private room in a hospital or clinic; it is very white and clean. The light is bright but slightly harsh. Off in a corner there is a dresser, and on top of the dresser are two “get well soon” cards. There are two doors: one directly in front of the bed and one off to the right. An IV pole/saline stand is off in a corner, unused at the moment. A large window is to the right of the bed; there is a rather ugly sofa sitting under it. A balloon that is pathetically deflating is tied to a chair, which is beside the hospital bed. Sitting in the bed is TOM, age 28. He is an average looking guy, wearing pjs and a black skull cap. Tom comes off as rather serious, but sarcastic at the same time – especially in his speech. In front of him is a bedside table that has several papers on it. Tom is working like he’s writing the next great American novel.
The door across from the bed opens. LENA, age 15, rolls into room on a wheelchair. She is dressed in oversized hospital scrubs and a wool cap. She is cheerful but slightly off, with an underlying sadness in her voice. Lena is unusually thin and small for her age. Every now and again, her right hand twitches. Aside from her illness, Lena looks like every high school sweetheart every guy has ever dreamed of having.
LENA: How’s it going, Butch?
TOM: (without looking up from his writing) Not bad, Sundance.
LENA: Come on; get your pale, bony self out of bed. We need to find another one of these so we can reenact the chariot race from Ben-Hur.
TOM: (glances up) Who’d you mug?
LENA: (offended) No one! I traded with Arty. He has a broken leg. Kid has seizures once a week and he’s still taking the stairs. So, for his own safety I brought him to his room and we switched: I got the chair (she pops an awkward half-wheelie) and he got twenty bucks and a Playboy that I stole from the third floor janitor.
TOM: Don’t tell me about your crimes. Wait, the janitor has Playboy? (beat) No. I will not be sucked in. I meant the scrubs.
Lena rolls the wheelchair to beside Tom’s bed. She gives his papers a long look.
LENA: (distracted) Locker room. Interns are so clueless. The scrubs are much better than what those Nurse Nazis usually have me wear.
Lena suddenly takes the papers off the top of Tom’s pile. Tom pushes away his bedside table, jumps out of his bed, flails, but manages to stand correctly. There is a brief ‘fight’ in which Tom tries to get his papers back. However, Lena uses the wheelchair to get away from him. The fight ends with Tom, defeated, sinking into the chair that is beside his bed; in annoyance, he knocks the balloon away from himself. Lena moves her wheelchair back to the room’s door.
LENA: “I, Thomas Clarence Reynolds, being of sound mind and not so sound body…” Is this your will? (Tom nods solemnly) It sucks, dude.
TOM: What? That’s my will. It’s my funeral and these are my last requests. (Lena jumps out of the wheelchair and nearly falls over. Tom starts, Lena catches herself and stands straight up.) What? What?
LENA: Lillies? Closed coffin? Music by. . . (pause, gags) Jars of Clay and Amy Grant? Look, I know you’re sick. . .
TOM: I’m dying.
LENA: Did your taste go before you? This is crap. And it’s morbid to be writing about your funeral.
TOM: I have a malignant tumor in my heart. I was given two years, maybe. It’s already been six months. I just want things to be in order, Lena.
LENA: Yeah, but it’s boring. I’m not going to your white lily having, Christian pop music playing, boring as hell funeral. Spice it up!
TOM: It’s my funeral! I’m the one with the damn heart tumor.
LENA: Oh, I’m Tom and I have a heart tumor. So, my funeral has to be boring and I have to be morbid about it. ‘Cause clearly, I’m too good to reenact scenes from classic cinema with Lena! Even though she comes to see me every time I’m here despite her busy schedule and the threats from the Nurse Nazis and the Doctors of Doom. (beat, is completely serious) You should consider a fog machine instead of flowers.
TOM: Fog machine?
LENA: Fog machine. Picture it: (makes wide movement with hands) the family and friends enter to a room of mysterious fog. Where’s the coffin?
TOM: I don’t know, Lena, maybe at the actual funeral and not at a 1980s heavy metal concert?
LENA: Darth Vader’s theme plays as the fog clears to reveal – the closed coffin. You’d want to keep the fog machine on low, to set the mood.
TOM: Of course. (beat) Don’t you have someone else to bother?
LENA: Mr. Whitman doesn’t get out of his experiments . . . his chemo until two. I have time to kill. Besides, I can’t let you have an embarrassingly boring funeral.
TOM: I’m honored. But, it’s my funeral and –
LENA: For music, I’m thinking some classics, like Journey or The Eagles. And, you just gotta play “Freebird.” Something people can get their lighters out for. So, when it’s over they can take you outside and just burn you there. It’ll save a ton of cash.
TOM: You’re sick. Seriously, I think you have a mental problem of some kind. I don’t know, maybe you were dropped on the head as a kid or raised in a cult or something. But. You. Are. Sick.
LENA: I’m not sick. I just want people to remember.
TOM: Lena. I’m alright; really I’m just at the start and the experimental treatments seem to be working. I just want things in order, before . . . if, if. . . I get too sick. I’m not going anywhere. You can still bother me for a while. Promise.
Lena simply stares at him, almost like he’s grown another head. An awkward silence lasting a few moments follows.
TOM: Sorry. Uh, what else should my funeral have? Clowns?
LENA: Clowns, Tom? (beat) No, I think you should get someone to come to your funeral. Like, someone with a familiar face that people think they know, but can’t seem to place. Everyone will wonder who the person is, but this guy or girl won’t say.
TOM: Why would I want someone I don’t know at my funeral?
LENA: Mystery. Imagine it: (Tom groans; Lena spreads her arms out) family and friends are crying, when suddenly someone who looks familiar rushes through crowd and falls onto your coffin screaming out, “Why? He was so young, so alive. Why?”
Tom scoots his chair back, away from Lena.
LENA: “Why? Why?” (stops, looks back) Why did you move?
TOM: Because you’re crazy. (Lena stands, nearly falls, before balancing herself on the bed. Tom gets up from his chair, moving to beside her. He notices Lena’s right hand twitching.) Whoa, you okay? Sit.
LENA: (sits) I’m okay. Got up too fast.
TOM: You shouldn’t be acting like this. It’s too much for you. I’ll call a nurse –
LENA: No! Don’t.
TOM: Sure.
Tom helps Lena stand, before guiding her to the orange sofa. The two sit in a somewhat awkward silence for a few moments. Tom watches Lena. Lena is fascinated with the floor.
LENA: (looking up) We should discuss your clothes.
TOM: Says the girl in the stolen scrubs.
LENA: I meant what you’ll be buried in, idiot. I’m thinking pajamas. You’ll want to spend eternity comfortable. You can’t be comfortable in a suit, Tom. Maybe add some bunny slippers (She laughs; coughs into her left, non-twitching hand, wipes hand on the back of her shirt)
Tom stares at Lena’s face for a long moment then moves his gaze to the place on her shirt where she wiped her hand. Gently, Tom forces her to lean forward. Lena goes to stand, but Tom grabs her wrist and forces her to sit. Lena watches as Tom spits into his hand, before taking her left hand into his. He wipes her hand clean, trying to get rid of what she has coughed up.
TOM: Why aren’t you ever serious about this stuff? You laugh, and you tease, and you talk about playing “Freebird” at funerals, but you never take this seriously. I’m going to die. Mr. Whitman is going to die. Mr. Adams, who you play poker with every damn day, he’s going to die. Arty, he’s gonna die. You. . . You’re –
LENA: Don’t say it. Please, don’t.
TOM: You’re never sad. Why can’t you be sad? Be sad, Lena! Cry! Do something to show that you actually feel.
LENA: Why? What good does sadness do? It doesn’t change anything. Your bodies hate you and you’ll all still die. Everybody dies. Isn’t it better to be happy and enjoy our time? Being sad, funerals, that stuff is for those you leave behind. You should be happy, because when it ends – you won’t be sick and in pain anymore.
TOM: Lena. I’m sorry. (Tom slowly wraps Lena into a hug) Sometimes, I forget. You’re so up all the time, that I forget.
LENA: S’alright. (she pulls away) It’s always in the back of my head, so it works out.
TOM: Still want to wheelchair race?
Lena glances toward the room’s door. An older NURSE enters, looking rather putout. This is not the first time she’s caught Lena misbehaving. Tom turns to see the Nurse and jumps away from Lena. Lena groans.
LENA: Shit.
NURSE: Delilah Mary Magdalena.
LENA: Not the full name.
TOM: It makes you sound like a biblical whore.
LENA: (stepping on Tom’s bare foot) Shut up!
NURSE: You know better than this, Lena. We’ve been looking for you everywhere. Patients of different sexes aren’t allowed in a room together after six –
LENA: It’s one-thirty in the afternoon.
NURSE: And, the door is not allowed to be closed.
TOM: Are you suggesting –
LENA: You are sick, lady. We couldn’t even –
NURSE: I’m not suggesting anything, Mr. Reynolds. (to Lena) And you, young lady, are supposed to be using your wheelchair.
TOM: You said you got it from Arty.
LENA: I lied. I haven’t seen you in ages; because I’ve been . . . I’m better now, though. I wanted to see you. I wanted to get out of that room.
TOM: Were you the one . . . did you have the seizure while on the stairs? Are you having seizures?
NURSE: Lena should know better than to go wandering off. You’ve begun having issues with your motor skills. If you fell and Mr. Reynolds couldn’t help you, you could have been seriously hurt. Lena, you’re not as strong as you think. And you Tom, you know you should have gotten us the moment she came in. You’re like a child around her.
LENA: He’s the Butch to my Sundance. The Bert to my Ernie. The Felix to my Oscar. The –
NURSE: Ms. Magdalena . . . you and your parents have an appointment at two-thirty with Dr. Goff. I suggest you firstly return those scrubs, before going back to your own room and rest until then.
There is a long silence; Tom and Lena exchange nervous glances.
LENA: I don’t want to see Dr. Goff. I’ve only been coming here three months. They said I had between nine and eighteen. You’re not giving the treatments enough time. I. . .I-I don’t feel sick. (quickly again) I’m still fine! You want me to run a mile? I jumped earlier. Want me to jump? I -
NURSE: (gently) Delilah, you have a brain tumor. The treatments are experimental. Dr. Goff wants to meet with you and your parents, in case you need hospice. I’ll help you to your room.
Lena moves behind Tom. Tom looks from Lena to the nurse and back again.
TOM: (to Nurse) Could we have a minute?
NURSE: I’ll be at the Nurse’s Station down the hall. Make it quick. (exits)
Lena steps out behind Tom. She moves to the wheelchair and sits back into it. Tom watches her: her smile gone, her head hanging – this is not the Lena of earlier. Tom goes to Lena and kneels down in front of her.
TOM: In the two months I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you afraid.
LENA: (softly) I’m not afraid.
TOM: Yes, you are. I don’t like it, Lena. (taking her twitching hand) You won’t have to leave for a while. If they make you leave before you’re ready . . . we’ll do a wing wide protest. Imagine it: two seventy-somethings, charging the office of Dr. Goff, oxygen tanks trailing behind them. Followed by a thirteen year old with his wheelchair and stolen nudie mags. And me, a twenty-something college drop out. You’re needed here, so we won’t let you leave. Who else would play poker with Mr. Adams? Who else would sneak in cigars, just so Mr. Whitman can smell them? Who else would steal Playboy for Arty? Who else would make us forget that we’ll all be dead within the next two years?
LENA: It’s like a Hallmark moment in here. (moves wheelchair away from Tom)
TOM: Shut up. When you go back to your room, don’t let the Nurse Nazis see the coughed up blood you wiped on the back of your shirt. And don’t be scared of Dr. Goff.
LENA: I’m not.
TOM: Course not.
LENA: I just don’t want to go.
TOM: I know. I don’t want to either.
Lena steps out of the wheelchair and gently pushes it to Tom, who stops it with his hands.
LENA: I just won’t take the stairs. My own silent protest against . . . everything.
She smiles softly at him, before heading to the door.
TOM: Later, Sundance.
Lena turns to stare back at him for a moment.
LENA: See ya, Butch. (exits)
Tom stares after her for a moment. He sits down in the wheelchair. There is a beat, before he starts wheeling himself around his room, almost as if he’s practicing for a chariot race.
Blackout
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