INT. RYAN'S BEDROOM - DAY
A heavy DSLR camera rests in the hands of RYAN LECLERC (17, lanky, with eyes that seem tired of what they see). He stands at a frost-rimed window.
Through the glass, Lac Brumeux is a sheet of bruised pewter. Dark, weeping patches of waterlogged ice mar the surface.
Ryan adjusts the lens. The shutter CLICKS.
He turns to the room. It is a war zone of eras. A poster of a Montreal indie band hangs next to a severe black-and-white portrait of an ancestor standing on a mountain of ice.
Ryan steps to his desk. Piles of college pamphlets—Toronto, Vancouver—sit beneath a tangle of charging cables.
He picks up a vintage film rangefinder.
In the corner, a collection of rusted tools leans against the wall. An iron grapple hook. A massive, toothy pit saw.
Ryan kneels. He frames the handle of the grapple hook. The wood is worn smooth, dark with century-old pine tar.
CLICK. The film advances with a WHIR.
He moves to the saw. He focuses on the junction of steel and wood. Carved initials: P.L.
CLICK.
Ryan! The tourtière isn’t getting any younger.
Ryan lowers the camera. He stares at the initials.
Coming.
INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT
A cast-iron stove radiates heat. The air smells of birch smoke and spiced meat.
ÉLISE LECLERC (40s, hands red from work, perpetually in motion) slices a deep-dish pie. She places a heavy slice on a plate.
BASTIEN LECLERC (72, a block of granite in a flannel shirt) sits at the head of the oak table. His knuckles are swollen maps of scars.
Ryan slides into his seat. The chair SCRAPES loudly against the floor.
Élise sits between them. A buffer zone.
Looks good.
It’s tourtière. The question is if the appetite is worthy.
Bastien stares at the wall. He hasn't looked at Ryan yet.
My appetite spent the afternoon cataloging the antique tools. I'd say it's earned its keep.
Bastien’s eyes snap to Ryan. Pale blue. Cold.
Not antiques. Tools. They work. Unlike that gas-powered toy in the shed.
It's a precision machine. You have to mix the oil right.
A machine that sensitive has no place on the ice. You do it right, or the lake takes you.
Please. Can we eat one meal without discussing two-stroke engine theology?
Ryan stabs a piece of crust.
How’s the ice?
Bastien chews. Slowly. He swallows.
It’s holding. Seven inches at the pressure ridge. We start tomorrow.
Ryan’s fork freezes halfway to his mouth.
Bastien. The co-op guidelines say ten.
The co-op is a knitting circle. I know this water. Seven inches of black ice is stronger than a foot of slush.
(Muttering)
The lodges have freezers.
Bastien SLAMS his hand on the table. The plates jump.
Do not speak of things you do not understand! This is about the name. We do not run away when it gets hard.
I’m not running away. I’m looking forward. You’d rather sink than admit it's over.
Character is knowing how to stand your ground.
Ryan stands up. He leaves his plate full.
Character is knowing when to build a boat.
He walks out. The warmth of the kitchen vanishes behind him.
EXT. LAC BRUMEUX - DAY
Thick, wet fog. The world is grey.
Ryan stands on the ice. He twists a hand-auger into the surface. Shavings of wet, grey slush curl up.
He pulls the auger out. A plug of clear black ice follows.
Ryan measures it against his finger. Seven inches.
He looks out. The house is a ghost in the mist.
Nearby, Bastien yanks the cord of a bright orange motorized saw. The engine ROARS. A mechanical scream.
Bastien lowers the blade. Ice chips spray.
Ryan watches. He tries to lift his camera, but the vibration travels through the ice, shaking his boots. He lowers the lens.
Suddenly, the saw SPUTTERS. A high whine drops to a cough.
Silence rushes back in.
Bastien yanks the cord. Nothing. He yanks again. Veins bulge in his neck.
It's flooded.
Bastien ignores him. He rips at the cord.
You're drowning the spark plug.
Bastien kicks the plastic casing. A sharp THUD.
Junk. City junk.
Bastien turns and marches toward the shore, disappearing into the fog.
Ryan stands alone with the silence.
MOMENTS LATER
Bastien returns. He drags the seven-foot pit saw. The steel RINGS against the ice.
He throws it down.
Now. We work.
LATER
The fog has thinned. A watery sun bleeds through.
Ryan and Bastien stand on opposite ends of the saw.
Pull.
Push.
Pull.
Push.
The blade RASPS through the ice. A rhythmic, hypnotic sound.
Ryan’s breath comes in ragged clouds. His shoulders burn.
He looks at Bastien. The old man moves with terrifying efficiency. No wasted motion. The saw is part of his arm.
The blade breaks through the bottom of the cut with a deep GROAN.
Bastien straightens. He isn't even winded. A thin smile touches his lips.
See? No gasoline. Just a Leclerc on each end.
Ryan flexes his numb fingers.
This Leclerc’s arms are about to fall off.
You’ll get used to it. It’s in the blood.
Ryan looks down at the cut. The black water churns inches below his boots.
INT. RYAN'S BEDROOM - NIGHT
Ryan sleeps, fully clothed, on top of his duvet.
SCRAPE.
A metallic sound from outside.
Ryan’s eyes snap open. He sits up.
Silence.
He goes to the window. The fog is gone. The moon is brilliant and cold.
On the lake, a lone silhouette moves across the silver expanse.
It is Bastien. He drags the great saw.
EXT. LAC BRUMEUX - CONTINUOUS
The cold is razor-sharp. The air bites.
Ryan bursts from the house. He skids down the frosted path.
Pépère!
The figure on the ice does not stop. Bastien positions the saw at the edge of the grid.
Ryan hits the ice. He slips, rights himself, and runs. His boots hammer against the thin sheet.
STOP! IT’S NOT SAFE!
Bastien freezes. He turns slowly.
A shadow in the moonlight.
Ryan stops. He is fifty yards away. Breath heaving.
Silence stretches between them. Heavy. Fragile.
CRACK.
A sound like a gunshot tears through the night. The vibration hits Ryan’s feet before the sound hits his ears.