Episode 63: “Todo se pasa”

Episode 63: "Todo se pasa" The Sheridan Tapes

CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of death, disappearance, and loss, discussions of colonialism and its effects on the Americas, familial separation and conflict, paranoia, and dread12262019: Back at Meriwether, Maria reminisces about her family's history as the team begins to fracture.Starring Airen Neeley Chaconas as Anna Sheridan, Amitola Lomas as Maria Sol, Kris Allison as Daniella Caldwell, Sam Taylor as Ren Park, Virginia Spotts as Kate Sheridan, Trevor Van Winkle as Sam Bailey, Maurice Cooper as Jerry Price, Chris Martin as Robert Quincy, and Jesse Steele as Bill Tyler, with original music by Jesse Haugen. Additional Voices by Chris Hubbard. Written by Virginia Spotts and Viane Londoño and produced by Virginia Spotts, with dialogue editing and sound design by Trevor Van Winkle. This episode was made possible by our supporters at Patreon.com/homesteadcorner, ko-fi.com/homesteadcorner, and our backers on Seed&Spark.For more information, additional content, and episode transcript, visit homesteadonthecorner.com/tst063Support this show http://supporter.acast.com/sheridantapes. Become a member at https://plus.acast.com/s/SheridanTapes. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Listen on Apple Podcasts

Listen on Spotify

CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of death, disappearance, and loss, discussions of colonialism and its effects on the Americas, familial separation and conflict, paranoia, and dread

12262019: Back at Meriwether, Maria reminisces about her family’s history as the team begins to fracture.

Starring Airen Neeley Chaconas as Anna Sheridan, Amitola Lomas as Maria Sol, Kris Allison as Daniella Caldwell, Sam Taylor as Ren Park, Virginia Spotts as Kate Sheridan, Trevor Van Winkle as Sam Bailey, Maurice Cooper as Jerry Price, Chris Martin as Robert Quincy, and Jesse Steele as Bill Tyler, with original music by Jesse Haugen. Additional Voices by Chris Hubbard. Written by Virginia Spotts and Viane Londoño and produced by Virginia Spotts, with dialogue editing and sound design by Trevor Van Winkle. This episode was made possible by our supporters at Patreon.com/homesteadcorner, ko-fi.com/homesteadcorner, and our backers on Seed&Spark.

For more information, additional content, and episode transcript, visit thesheridantapes.com

Script

Transcript

CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of death, disappearance, and loss, discussions of colonialism and its effects on the Americas, familial separation and conflict, paranoia, and dread

[Christmas at Anna’s; the gentle sound of quiet nightlife outside, the fire crackling]

Anna Sheridan

I’m sorry Maria, it’s just… I don’t want to talk about it. Maybe later.

Maria Sol

Yeah… Okay. Sure.

[Anna shifts back on the couch, Maria lies down next to her]

[The fire flutters and the wind howls]

[Anna’s phone chimes, she shifts to pick it up]

Maria Sol

What is it?

[Sound of Anna opening her texts]

Anna Sheridan

Text from Kate. “Wild day over here! Hope you’re well. Andrew loves the plush cat you got him. Love you so much, hope we get to see you next year. Merry Christmas.”

[She opens the photo with a click]

Aww… 

Maria Sol 

Lemme see.

[Anna shifts to show her the photo]

Now that’s cute.

[Anna’s phone chimes]

Anna Sheridan

“By the way, Mom asked about you again. I told her you were busy. Let me know if there’s anything you want me to pass on.”

[Anna’s phone chimes]

“Sorry.”

[Anna sighs]

[Typing noises as she responds]

“No worries — I have a lot on my plate right now. Andrew’s adorable. Merry Christmas to you all. I’ll try to make it next year.”

[Text sends; she sets her phone down]

Maria Sol

I always forget how different Christmas is for your family.

[Anna laughs lightly]

Anna Sheridan

I know, it’s weird.

Maria Sol

I really can’t picture the Sheridan-Slates being down for an all-night Christmas Eve rager, though. I wish you could come.

Anna Sheridan

Maybe some year. Later. After… [she sighs] I don’t know.

Maria Sol

I’m in no rush. But it really is fun. Colombians do it better, you know.

[Anna laughs]

Anna Sheridan

You sure you aren’t just trying to get out of flying back here first thing Christmas morning?

Maria Sol

Hey, I don’t mind — anything’s possible with enough coffee. And besides… I wanted to be here.

Anna Sheridan

You’re being awfully sweet today.

Maria Sol 

Just… feeling grateful for what I have. What we have.

[Maria trails off]

[Anna leans in]

Anna Sheridan

Hello? Earth to Maria?

Maria Sol

Sorry, just thinking about… nevermind.

Anna Sheridan

What?

Maria Sol

Well… I heard some more of my parent’s story last night. How they got here from Colombia? Mom was, uh… sufficiently drunk by the end of the night to let her walls down a bit.

Anna Sheridan 

What did she say?

Maria Sol

It was… more of the emotional side of it. I knew the practicals, but… well, she started off by apologizing for not telling me the whole story, like the whole whole story. She said something like… “The things that don’t matter, I yell, and the things that do matter, I take to my grave… but I don’t want to take this to my grave.”

Anna Sheridan

Whoa. Do you want to… could you tell me about it?

Maria Sol

It’s, uh… parts of it are still — painful. To, uh, reflect on.

Anna Sheridan

Would it be easier if I got the tape recorder? I know it helps me.

[Maria scoffs playfully]

Maria Sol

You sure you don’t just want a recording for yourself?

Anna Sheridan

Whatever she told you, it’s a part of who you are. I want to know it. And I don’t ever want to forget the details.

Maria Sol

Oh, fine… you old sweet talker, you.

[Cassette rollback starts]

Anna Sheridan

Tell me a story?

[Click]

[Main Theme]

Recording Begins

[Tapping at keyboard]

[Beep]

[The sound of grainy CCTV footage beginning to play]

Intercom Voice (faintly)

Doctor Anderson to the loading bay. Shipment has arrived. Thank you.

[Two sets of footsteps enter opposite from each other]

Daniella Caldwell

Doctor Park.

Ren Park

Doctor Caldwell! Uh… hello there.

Daniella Caldwell

How was your holiday?

Ren Park

Well, I uh… after I got back from New Orleans — which I’m very sorry about how that turned out, Doctor Caldwell… I mean about the team, I had no idea they would… 

[clears throat]

I, uh, managed to catch a quick flight up to Rochester to see Adam. So that was nice. How was yours?

Daniella Caldwell

I also managed a visit back home. To see my parents.

Ren Park

How are they doing?

[Drawn out silence]

Daniella Caldwell

Meet me in my office after 5.

[Her footsteps vanish down the corridor]

[Ren sighs and walks to the others]

Ren Park

Sorry you had to see that.

Kate Sheridan

She seems… 

Maria Sol

Pissed.

Sam Bailey

Sorry… I know I was the one to suggest the road trip, but I didn’t think it would—

Kate Sheridan

Don’t be too hard on yourself — I’m pretty sure it was just the absinthe talking.

Ren Park

We’ll have plenty of time to talk it over, Sam… after Caldwell’s done handing me my ass.

[Ren exits, footsteps slowly disappearing]

[Sam sighs]

Sam Bailey

I should have known better.

Kate Sheridan

Hell, so should I.

Maria Sol

It’ll work out… somehow.

[Jerry approaches]

Jerry Price

Sorry to butt in… Sam, could I talk to you and Bill for a second?

[Sam rises and walks to him]

Sam Bailey

Uh… sure, Jerry. What’s uh… what’s going on? Is something wrong?

Jerry Price

Nothing’s wrong, just… wanted to talk something through with both of you… 

[His voice fades as they leave the atrium]

Intercom Voice (continuing in background)

Attention: 0-0-1-4. 0-0-1-4. Thank you.

Maria Sol

How was your Christmas, Kate? I forgot to ask.

Kate Sheridan

Well… I really wish I’d made it back in time to see Andrew before he went to bed on Christmas Eve, but… can’t help engine troubles, I guess. But we made up for it, I think. Tried to, at least. Peter got Caldwell’s permission to order some kid’s gymnastics equipment to the facility, and we set it all up in one of the empty conference rooms. [she laughs] Andrew loved it. Spent all day playing. So did we, honestly. Peter’s still sleeping it off.

We get to leave it up for another week. We have to take it down once everyone’s back after New Year’s.

[Maria laughs]

Maria Sol

Well, I call dibs before that. I can probably keep up with him a little easier than you two — no offense. 

[Kate laughs]

Andrew will remember the effort you put in. To try and make things feel, uh… closer to normal, I guess. It’s not about it being perfect, you know? Just being together.

Kate Sheridan

Yeah.

Maria Sol

You know… if you’re interested, I have another, uh… personal tape in the old archive. Anna ended up with the original, but I digitized it before she disappeared.

[Maria pulls out her phone, taps the screen, and loads a file]

There we go.

Kate Sheridan

What is it?

Maria Sol

It’s about… my family. How they left Colombia and ended up in Phoenix. It doesn’t really have much to do with Anna, but… 

Kate Sheridan

No, I’d love to hear it, if you’re comfortable sharing.

Maria Sol

Really?

Kate Sheridan

Please. Anna didn’t… well, she didn’t feel safe to tell us much about you outside of work. Which breaks my heart, but… I understand why now.

I want to know. Whatever you’re willing to share, that is.

Maria Sol

Thanks Kate, that… that means a lot to me.

Alright… one Maria Sol Christmas special, coming up.

[Beep as CCTV footage ends]

[Silence]

[Cassette noises]

[Click]

[Static washes away]

[Back in Anna’s living room: distant wind, crackling fire]

Maria Sol

So… I mentioned what my mom said about not wanting to take things to her grave? Well, before she said that, I was looking up stuff on my phone, trying to find this poem that my dad really likes, when I stumbled across a different one. It was called “Light and Shadow Make Up the House,” by María Tabares, a Colombian poet. It’s about how light and shadow always go together, in every part of our lives — that you can’t have one without the other. You should look it up later, it’s quite moving. My mom thought so too.

When I read it, Anna, she… she burst into tears. I mean, you’ve met her. Gabriela Londoño Rodriguez does not cry. Not like that. Admittedly, she also told me that it’d been a bad week in the ward, and my dad is still recovering from his surgery, so… lots of other things going on. But besides this time, I’ve only ever seen her cry once: when I left for LA to go to school.

After some… very careful prying, she actually started talking. Apparently the poem had stirred up a lot for her: things she’d tried to forget about Colombia, certainly things she’d never told me. Things about my abuela María, my mom’s mom, who stayed back in Colombia when they left. About the things María had seen in their town, their home. Things my mom couldn’t explain.

And now, for the first time, mi vida… I’ll tell you.

[Maria shifts in her chair, getting comfortable]

The women in my family have always been gifted, going back a long, long time — way back before the arrival of the Spaniards, in the days of my Muisca ancestors. And though many of their stories and memories were lost or destroyed, the patterns, the habits in our family endured. And — as I’ve been told — even if it skips a generation or two, there’s always been power in the matrilineal line. My abuela would always talk about Epifanía Socorro Gil Contreras, the intuitive healer, who knew more about herbs and medicine than anyone she’d ever met: that she knew how to brew the perfect aromática to cure whatever ailed you. Or Celia Hermenegilda Castañeda Suárez, the singer: how she had a voice like an angel, and could make up a song right on the spot that would speak to whatever hurts or joys the listener felt. Her skills with the tiple were unmatched, the strings ringing with a melancholy that would shake a heart of stone. Or Agripina Socorro Jaramillo Torres, who always knew what the weather was going to be, months in advance. Jacinta Isidora Mejía Ortiz had a knack for creating these incredible figurines out of wood, that looked so lifelike they… 

[Maria collects herself]

Anyway — I’ve heard so many names and gifts that they all kind of blur together. This one could always tell when someone was lying, this one could think about someone in the morning and have them seek her out at lunchtime, another could talk to the dead, and another was famous for her legendary cooking — it just goes on and on. It’s an unending, ever-branching tree of love and skill and magic… and as distant as all those names feel, I’m a part of that.

My abuela was the most recent woman in our line to have a gift. She had premonitions. Vivid ones, too. She would have them about all sorts of things in people’s lives — pregnancies, marriages, career opportunities, inheritances… you get the idea. She loved her gift, and loved using it to celebrate with people when the news was good, or encourage people when it wasn’t. She was good at that. She also kept some beautiful roses. I don’t know if that was part of her gift, or if that was just her. But I’m told they were beautiful — big, and healthy, and fragrant. I have one of them, actually, dried out and preserved: an abuela original, all the way from Colombia. But that’s for a different part of the story.

She’d had her gifts for as long as she could remember… but during the last part of her life, her premonitions became more ominous. And that sense of dread only grew through the decades. At first, the visions were still varied, as they’d always been: shimmering air that would appear like a wall of invisible fire if she should avoid some part the countryside, jacaranda petals that would fall in just the right way when it was a good day to visit the market, a little bird that would come chirp at her door when it was best to stay inside altogether… little signs that told her how and when to move about her life. Signs that kept her safe. In those days especially, there wasn’t much you could do to avoid danger. My parents like to say that people had God in one hand, and a gun in the other. My abuela also had her visions. And over time… they grew… stranger. Darker.

She started seeing something new. A slow-moving shadow. She said it looked like it was being woven out of thin air, or squeezed out like unspun wool from some invisible point out of sight. It would creep around the heads and shoulders of certain people, then stay there. Eventually, it became the only thing she could see. The rest of her familiar premonitions didn’t seem to want to share space with this one. And as time went on, she began to realize that the shadow meant one of two things: either those people would disappear soon… or they would die.

My abuela and my parents lived together, in a small town in the Municipio de Vélez, Santander, where they’d all grown up. Our ancestors have been there forever — or what feels like forever. It’s the only home they ever remembered, in any case. They knew everyone, and everyone knew them. They were rooted. The green mountains and cool, overcast skies held them and sheltered them, generation after generation.

So when the shadow only appeared over people that my abuela María knew from the other side of the mountain, she felt grateful that it hadn’t touched her own home yet. The familiar hills and trees comforted her, and she tried her best not to dwell on her fear. That’s how she always got through the heavier premonitions before.

Then, she started to see the shadow around people in their town. Ones she didn’t know as well, perhaps. But like I said… they knew everyone. And it didn’t take long for the shadow to creep into their inner circle: people that my dad worked with. My mom’s old classmates. One day, it was two people only a few streets over… people my grandma had danced with in the town plaza just days before. People who lived across the street. People who lived next door. One by one, my abuela would be haunted with these shadow visions, and those people would disappear. Sometimes the visions were unclear, and the people would find their way back home, or they would get back in contact with their families from another town entirely. There was always the possibility, however slim, that they’d break free from the weave of the shadow. But almost always… they were never seen again.

All the same, life continued. It always does. And my family’s favorite month — December — was full of reasons to celebrate and cook the best food with one another.

It was Christmas Day in 1984 that it happened. My abuela woke with a raging hangover from the after-mass party in the town plaza the previous night. Her feet ached, and she felt exhausted, but satisfied. She wandered into the kitchen, planning to brew some coffee before she laid down for another nap — when a powerful vision gripped her. She’d caught sight of my parents — Gabriela and Alejandro — as they slept in the next room. The shadow sat above both their heads. But she saw something else… something she hadn’t seen in years. A soft glow, pulsing and shining from my mother’s belly.

My abuela cried softly, not wanting to wake them. She knew what it meant: the sign of a baby to come… me.[Maria laughs gently, then…] And a sign of impending doom.

She tried to stay calm. She knew their time was running out. But they’d all been up so late — laughing, dancing, eating, drinking, celebrating. And it was a Tuesday, after all. My abuela had her superstitions, and this was one of them: it was bad luck to leave the house on a Tuesday, and she would not risk it, no matter what she saw.

Eventually, my parents did wake up, in much the same state as my abuela. Christmas Day for Colombians is a day for resting — the party’s over, but the food certainly isn’t. There was plenty of mute santandereano & buñuelos to reheat from the day before, plenty of coffee to drink, and even a bit of natilla left to smooth it all out between naps. My parents wouldn’t have thought anything of my abuela’s quiet that day, if not for the fact that something in her eyes made her look unbearably sad. Sad, and frightened.

Night fell. Abuela María gathered her strength. And finally, when it was full dark and all was quiet, she told my parents that Gabriela was pregnant. At first, they were shocked. She hadn’t had a strong pregnancy vision in years. And then, my mom realized that it had to be true.

My theory? I think I was conceived on December 8th. It’s a beautiful day of lighting candles, hanging lights and lanterns, setting off fireworks, dancing, eating even more buñuelos… it’s a big deal in Colombia. And if you didn’t know?

[Maria laughs]

It’s what’s called Día de las Velitas… the Feast of the Immaculate Conception.

[joking tone]

So, you know, I stand before you, as the blessing that was promised.

[she laughs, and then feels sorrow creep in]

I sometimes wonder if my parents could have found somewhere else to go. Somewhere else in Colombia, or even another country nearby. I wonder what it would have been like to experience all these things for myself. I only know what it’s like from what my parents and my little family in the States have been able to recreate. I don’t know what it’s like to walk down the street in the middle of town and see the celebration everywhere. I don’t know what it’s like to feel that joy around me. That’s a different kind of thing. The smells of the food, the warmth of the lights, the rhythm of your neighbors and your family dancing in the soft glow… it’s collective. There’s no need to convince your boss for time off work or to call your kid off of school. It’s just how it is.

My abuela let that sacred, happy moment last as long as she could. She was going to have another grandchild — my parents’ first. But… she did have to tell them the next part.

Their lives were in danger. The shadow was upon them. And… knowing it would soon be midnight, would soon be a new day… they needed to leave. She wasted no tears telling them this, though she could have wept for days — she needed them to see her strong. My parents pleaded with her: why did they need to flee now? My abuela warned them that the vision was too strong for them to wait. She’d already waited hours to tell them — but she wanted to soak in their presence just a little longer. So she had. And it would have to do, until they saw each other again.

My abuela was a persuasive woman. When she set her mind about something, it was all but impossible to throw her off. But more than that, my mother knew that she was right. My abuela had never been wrong about her premonitions. And so, my mother and father gathered up their things in silence.

Before they left, abuela gave them one thing: a fresh rose, plucked from her garden that morning. I told you the roses would come back into the story, didn’t I? She said that if all the petals stayed on the rose as it dried, they would know that she was safe and alive back home — that her love went with them. And with that… nothing was left to do but the impossible. It was time for them to leave their homeland, with no assurance they would ever return.

My mom didn’t… elaborate on that, a lot. She’d told me so much, but I could tell this was hard for her. My dad filled in some of the gaps — he already had an older brother living in the US, and they wanted a better life for me. They knew it would be difficult, but they also knew it would be even harder if they weren’t with family.

So they moved in with my uncle’s family in Phoenix, squeezed into a two-bedroom apartment barely big enough for his family. There was my uncle, Santiago, his wife Sandra Isabela, their twins Beatriz Elena & Luis Alberto, my parents, and little ‘ol me, still on the way. There was also Fernando and Paola, an older Colombian couple who weren’t strictly speaking related to us, but they came by so often that it didn’t matter they weren’t family by blood.

My parents say that they were able to stay in contact with abuela María for a while. At least once a month, they would place a very short but expensive phone call to her home in Santander. It was enough to hear her voice and know that she was safe, and for her to know that all of us were safe and well. And, yes: through all of their journeying and trials to get there… the rose dried beautifully. All petals intact.

Then September 1st, 1985 rolled around. My mom went into labor right after Mass. My dad was on a job site in Flagstaff at the time, but he rushed to her side in the hospital. On the way though, he stopped by the florist’s to grab nine roses: one for each member of our Phoenix family, and one for me: to welcome me into the world.

After we all left the hospital and returned home, my dad arranged the new roses in a bouquet, to dry around the first one. They said those early days were full of chaos, but so much love. Four adults, two toddlers, and one stubborn and cuddly newborn. They tried contacting my abuela to tell her the good news, but… no one picked up. When I was a few days old, one of her neighbors called instead. My abuela María had died the same day I was born. Peacefully, at least. In her sleep.

Everything… passes. The good, of course… but even the bad… It has a natural limit. Life will always continue. Or as my parents used to say, “No hay mal que dure cien años, ni cuerpo que lo aguante.” “There is no evil that lasts a hundred years, nor a body that can withstand it.”

My parents have always talked about her as if she’s still with us. And I guess… you know I’m not religious anymore, but — I suppose I feel that too. Because of her visions, my parents are still alive. And so am I. And it is worth pointing out that… all of those roses, to this day, haven’t lost a single petal.

[Click]

[Cassette ends]

[Silence]

[Beep]

[CCTV footage re-starts]

[Kate sighs and sniffles]

Kate Sheridan 

Wow, I… thank you, Maria.

Maria Sol 

Glad I could share it.

Kate Sheridan

How does it feel, to… listen to all of that again?

Maria Sol

I’m… proud. I’m sad. I want to hug my family.

Kate Sheridan

They sound amazing.

Maria Sol

They are.

Kate Sheridan

Have you ever been able to visit Colombia with them?

Maria Sol

No. My parents always seemed afraid to go back… like it would reopen old wounds. I think they’ve had to stay detached for so long just to survive, to build a life for us… for me. If they would go with me, though… I’d love to take them. 

[she considers a moment]

I’ve been saving everything ISPHA’s been paying me — haven’t really needed to spend any of it. Maybe I could.

Kate Sheridan

You’re thinking of leaving?

Maria Sol

I don’t know if I’m in the right place, Kate. I guess I’m not sure what I’m doing here. I feel like I haven’t been able to… let go. If Anna’s not dead, then it all just feels like… bitterness. And I can’t let go of it.

I can’t stop thinking about what I saw in my mom’s eyes when she told me the story. The resentment that’s stayed with her, her whole life. How she hasn’t been able to let go of that, either.

Maybe it’s time.

[Beep]

[Silence]

[Keyboard taps; Beep]

[CCTV re-starts in a small conference room]

Sam Bailey

Wait… sorry, I need you to say that again Jerry.

Robert Quincy

You’re Thurgood Vice.

[Bill laughs]

Bill Tyler 

You know, I knew something was up when you bought those fancy new solar panels—

Jerry Price

Alright, alright, one at a time, please.

[Jerry sighs, secretly pleased]

Yes, Sam… I’ve been writing under the pen-name of Thurgood Vice since I left Agate Shore. Robin’s Run was my first book, but I wanted to stay, you know, anonymous—

Bill Tyler 

First book, and runaway SUCCESS!

Jerry Price 

It wasn’t like I wanted to… 

[Jerry laughs]

Yeah… I guess it was.

Bill Tyler 

Goddamn, man… I’m so proud of you!

Robert Quincy

Seriously — you wrote that? It is one of the best goddamn thrillers I’ve read in years!

[Jerry laughs]

Jerry Price

Thanks, Rob — I’ll be sure to put that on the cover of the next one.

Sam Bailey 

And… now you’re leaving.

Jerry Price

Yeah. Look Sam, I never wanted to end up in this situation. I was in the middle of my next manuscript when you all showed up at my door. If the publishers are happy with it, then it’s big money — get-out-of-Oslow-for-good kind of money.

Bill Tyler 

I thought you liked your place?

Jerry Price

I do! I spent a long time trying to get there, but… honestly? I don’t like being in Morrison’s reach any more than you do. I’m far enough out of town that I don’t have to see him all that often, but… Nevada isn’t it. Not for me. I want to be somewhere greener — somewhere with trees, and shade, and the sound of birds in the morning. And if I can sell this next book in time… I can do that. I don’t have to settle for something that’s just okay.

I’ve tried working on it here, but… it’s not happening. This place is just too… sterile. And Doctor Caldwell knows something, I’m sure of it. I can’t afford to get sidetracked or blocked by someone who thinks what I want doesn’t matter. [he sighs] I need to go home.

Sam Bailey

I… I respect that, Jerry.

Robert Quincy

I can’t believe you kept that a secret for so long!

Jerry Price

This is exactly why I kept it a secret for so long. I don’t want to be famous… I don’t even want people to know. I just want to be left alone.

And uh… I’m telling you three because I’d love for you to come visit. Even if I’m working. Whenever you’re, uh… whenever you’re done with all this. Unless… 

Bill Tyler 

Unless…?

Jerry Price

You could come back to Oslow with me?

Sam Bailey

What?

Jerry Price

I see what you’ve been through, Bill. You need rest.

[Rob sighs]

Robert Quincy

Maybe we should, love… 

Bill Tyler 

I don’t know. I… I appreciate that, Jerry, but… it feels like I have — unfinished business here. I have to stay.

Jerry Price

Alright. Just watch your backs, though. I know ISPHA’s doing some kind of… tests and whatnot on Bill, but… I don’t think that’s all they’re doing. I think they’re collecting data on all of us, all the time. Like lab rats.

Sam Bailey

Come on Jerry, I know this place can make you paranoid, but I don’t think they’d—

Jerry Price

It’s not paranoia, Sam. I honestly can’t think of any other reason they’d want us to stay so badly.

But if you don’t want to go… that’s your choice. It’s my time to leave, though.

[Bill and Rob walk over and embrace Jerry]

Bill Tyler 

I’m going to miss you, buddy.

Robert Quincy

Me too.

[Jerry chuckles]

Jerry Price

Y’all take care of yourselves.

[Bill and Rob exit, the door left open]

Sam Bailey

Uh… before you go, Jerry?

Jerry Price

Yeah?

Sam Bailey

Could you wake me up in the morning, before you leave? I want to say goodbye to Russel.

Jerry Price

I’ll do you one better, Sam. Russel can stay with you tonight. I usually don’t let him up on the bed, so it’ll be a treat for him too. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.

Sam Bailey

Thank you, Jerry.

Jerry Price

Well come on, let’s go get the little monster… 

Sam Bailey 

After you.

[Footsteps and a door closing behind them]

[Camera keeps rolling in the quiet, the sound of something small and organic heard choking out the camera]

[Static rises]

[Beep]

Recording Ends

End Theme & Credits


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s