INT. APARTMENT HALLWAY - NIGHT
FRANK (32), wearing a paramedic uniform that has seen too many shifts, slams his shoulder into a warped wooden door.
The wood gives with a sound like CRACKING ICE.
Beside him is SAL (24), fresh-faced, eyes wide with civic duty.
Shoulder against it. On three.
Frank counts it down. One. Two. Three.
They heave together. The door GROANS open, scraping a semi-circle into the dusty floorboards.
INT. HENDERSON APARTMENT - CONTINUOUS
The air is stale. Cold. A visible mist of breath hangs in the room.
MR. HENDERSON (80s) sits huddled in a threadbare armchair. He is wrapped in a blanket so thin it resembles a shroud. His lips are blue.
Frank kneels. His knees POP.
Sir? Mr. Henderson? My name is Frank, I'm a paramedic.
Henderson’s eyes flutter open. Cloudy cataracts. He tries to speak. A DRY RATTLE escapes his throat.
Frank pulls a thermal blanket from his kit. The foil CRINKLES loudly in the silence.
Sal fumbles with a blood pressure cuff, fingers stiff.
BP is eighty over fifty, pulse thready at forty-five. Skin is cold to the touch. Classic hypothermia.
Frank touches the radiator. Stone cold.
He glances at the thermostat. The plastic cover is cracked. The digital display is blank.
On the kitchen counter, under a bottle of expired milk, sits a gas bill.
Red lettering screams: FINAL NOTICE.
EXT. AMBULANCE BAY - NIGHT
Diesel fumes hang in the air. Frank leans against a wall, nursing a burnt coffee.
A figure detaches from the shadows near the dumpsters.
ELISE (30s) steps into the light. She wears a tailored leather jacket and expensive boots that look out of place on the oil-stained asphalt.
Frank, you got a minute?
Frank doesn't stand up.
What do you want, Doc?
I hear things. I hear you’re tired of bringing people to this... processing plant.
She gestures to the ER entrance. A nurse is SCREAMING at a drunk patient near the sliding doors.
It's the job.
Elise steps closer. The scent of expensive floral perfume cuts through the diesel.
Doesn't have to be the whole job. I have a different kind of clientele. They want comfort. Discretion. And they have excellent insurance.
Frank stares at her. He takes a sip of the sludge in his cup.
My facility is five minutes away. You bring them to me, I file the paperwork. Finder's fee. Five hundred. Cash. Per delivery.
She presses a thick, heavy business card into his hand.
That’s illegal.
It’s a protocol deviation. Customer service.
She turns and walks away. Her heels CLICK rhythmically on the asphalt.
She disappears into a sleek black car. The engine PURRS to life.
Frank looks at the card. Five hundred dollars.
EXT. CANYON ROAD - NIGHT
A Mercedes is wrapped around an oak tree. Steam rises from the crushed radiator.
A BUSINESSMAN (50s), wearing a suit worth more than a car, paces angrily. He holds a phone to his ear. A small cut bleeds on his forehead.
I can't be late for my flight to Zurich. Just patch me up.
Frank looks at Sal.
Definitely needs to be checked out. Possible concussion, wrist could be fractured.
Frank feels the weight of his wallet against his hip. The card is inside.
He steps closer to the Businessman, lowering his voice.
Look. The county ER is a warzone tonight. You'll be waiting six hours. But there's a private clinic not far from here.
The Businessman stops pacing.
Really? Can you take me there?
It’s a slight deviation from standard protocol. But I can make an exception.
Frank pulls out his phone. He avoids looking at Sal.
INT. CONVENIENCE STORE - NIGHT
Frank stands at the counter. He hands the clerk five crisp, new one-hundred-dollar bills.
The clerk stamps a utility bill stub.
Frank walks out to his car. He unwraps a hot dog.
He eats it in the dark. He stares straight ahead. His face is blank.
INT. ALBRIGHT MANSION - FOYER - NIGHT
Opulence. Persian rugs. An ornate mirror.
MR. ALBRIGHT (70s) sits on the floor. He has a lump on his head.
His DAUGHTER (40s), in yoga pants, hovers nervously.
He just seemed to trip over nothing. He says he's fine, but he's not making sense.
No hospitals. Hate them.
Frank checks the pupils. They are sluggish.
Vitals are stable.
He looks at the daughter. He gives the speech.
The private clinic. Fast service. Comfort.
She nods, relieved.
Frank types on his tablet. His fingers fly.
INSERT - TABLET SCREEN:
He checks the boxes: GCS 15. ALERT AND ORIENTED. NO NEUROLOGICAL DEFICITS.
BACK TO SCENE
Frank helps the old man up. Albright stumbles, heavy.
Frank catches his own reflection in the ornate mirror. He looks away.
INT. COFFEE SHOP - NIGHT
Frank slides into a back booth. Elise sits opposite him. An untouched tea sits before her.
Where's my money?
Elise’s face is stone. No predatory smile today.
There was a complication. Mr. Albright had a subdural hematoma. A slow bleed.
Frank freezes.
He arrested on my table two hours after you dropped him off. We couldn't bring him back.
The coffee shop noise fades to a DULL ROAR.
His vitals were fine. He was talking.
He needed a CT scan. Which he would have gotten at the ER.
She slides a piece of paper across the table.
It is a copy of the transfer report. Frank's signature is at the bottom.
You documented him as GCS 15. I have the daughter's statement that he was slurring. I have my nurse's intake assessment.
Frank feels the cold again. The deep-freeze of the apartment.
(Whispering)
What are you going to do?
Elise leans forward. The shark smile returns. Cold. Sharp.
We are not going to do anything. You are.
She taps the paper.
I have taken care of the daughter's financial discomfort. She gave me this. I own it now. I own you.
Frank tries to swallow. His throat is tight.
There is no more five hundred dollars, Frank. From now on, you bring me the right clients. You do it perfectly. Or this goes to the District Attorney.
Frank nods slowly.
The transaction is complete.