INT. AIRPORT TERMINAL - GATE 42 - NIGHT
A wall of plate-glass windows shudders under the assault of a blizzard. Outside, the world is a swirling vortex of white, erasing the tarmac.
Inside, the air is stale and cold. A thin track of condensation drips down the inside of a window pane.
The OVERHEAD FLUORESCENTS hum with a sickly, flickering drone.
ANNA (32) sits on a hard plastic chair. She wears a thin cardigan over a scrub top, stiff jeans, and worn Skechers. Her eyes are red-rimmed, dark circles carved deep into her face.
She clutches a smartphone. The screen is black.
She plugs a white charging cable into the phone. She wiggles the connector. The plastic casing is snapped clean off, wires exposed.
She presses the power button. Holds it. Nothing. Just the reflection of the yellow lights on the dark glass.
A mechanical GRINDING NOISE erupts from the jetway door—Gate 42.
Anna looks up sharply. The metal door judders, moves an inch, then SLAMS back into its frame. Jammed.
A collective GROAN ripples through the scattered passengers.
FRANK (50s) stands near a concrete pillar. His face is a roadmap of hard labor, his jacket worn at the elbows. He stares at the gate, jaw tight.
Another bloody delay.
Anna doesn't respond. She drops the broken charger into her battered navy blue carry-on bag.
(To the air)
Brother lost his pension last month. Factory shut down. Now this.
Anna rubs her thumb against her cuticle, picking at a hangnail until a bead of blood surfaces. She wipes it on her jeans.
She looks around. A YOUNG COUPLE huddles together for warmth. An ELDERLY WOMAN rearranges her purse with trembling hands.
Anna stands. Her knees POP. She hoists her bag, the weight dragging her shoulder down.
She walks to the window. She presses her hand against the glass. The cold radiates through her palm.
Below, in the distance, headlights of a snowplow struggle against the drifts. A losing battle.
Frank moves closer, his eyes also on the storm.
Heard a guy by the newsstand. Says the roads are closed east of Truro.
Anna freezes. Her reflection in the glass stares back—hollow, pale.
Even if you had wheels. You'd hit a wall.
Anna turns from the window. She looks at the jammed gate. The digital sign above it flickers: "DELAYED".
She looks toward the terminal exit. The long, empty hallway stretching back toward the parking garage.
She reaches into her pocket. Her hand closes around a set of car keys. The metal jingles faintly.
(Softly)
They'll send a man to Mars before they get us to the Maritimes.
Anna grips the keys tighter. Her knuckles turn white.
She looks back at the gate. Then at the exit. Then at the keys.
The WIND HOWLS outside, shaking the glass in its frame.
Anna takes a breath. It hitches in her throat. She takes a step toward the exit.
Then another.
She stops. She looks back at the empty plastic chair she left behind.
The gate GRINDS again. Metal on stone.
Anna turns her back on the gate. She starts walking toward the exit, her pace quickening, the sound of her Skechers squeaking against the linoleum.