EXT. PORTAGE AVENUE - DAY
A savage WIND howls down the wide, frozen street.
EDITH (14) stands on the corner. She wears a wool scarf with visible gaps in the weave and a coat that has seen better decades. Her boots are thin.
A stack of *Winnipeg Citizen* newspapers is wedged under her arm. Heavy. Cold.
Paper! Read about the Citizens’ Committee!
Her voice cracks. A raw tear in the air.
A STREETCAR CLANGS in the distance. The driver scowls behind glass.
A MAN in a thick coat walks past. A truncheon hangs from his belt. A 'Special'.
He stops. Shoves a nickel at Edith.
She hands him a paper. Her fingers are red, stiff claws.
He doesn't look at her. He walks away, head down against the gust.
Edith looks at the stack under her arm. Two left.
She looks down the avenue. The wind pushes her, physically moving her small frame.
She spots a window ahead. Gold letters peeling on the glass: "CAFE".
The bottom half of the glass is opaque with steam.
Edith hesitates. She touches the coins in her pocket.
She moves toward the door.
EXT. CAFE - CONTINUOUS
Edith shoulders the wood. It doesn't budge. Ice seals the frame.
She throws her whole weight against it.
The ice CRACKS. The door gives with a GROAN.
INT. CAFE - CONTINUOUS
A wall of heat hits her. Thick. Wet. Smelling of roasted chicory.
Edith stumbles in. Her glasses instantly fog over white.
She stands blind. A frozen statue in the doorway.
She pulls the glasses off. Wipes them on her coat hem.
The room swims into focus.
Narrow. Crowded. A long wooden counter worn smooth.
AT THE FAR END:
THREE STRIKERS hunch over mugs. heavy coats. Smudged faces.
NEAR THE DOOR:
TWO SPECIALS sit stiffly. Truncheons on hips.
Silence hangs heavy. The only sound is the HISS of the coffee urn.
CATHY (40s) stands behind the counter. Clean white apron. Hair in a severe bun. Her face is a mask of stone.
She looks at Edith. Then nods to a single empty stool near the window.
Edith slides onto the stool. She shoves the newspapers under the counter, out of sight.
She pushes her nickel and pennies across the wood.
Just coffee, please.
Cathy slides a thick ceramic mug over. Pours from a large metal pot.
Steam rises. A damp blessing.
Edith wraps both hands around the mug. She closes her eyes.
Selling the boss’s truth today, are we?
Edith flinches. Opens her eyes.
THOMAS (18) sits on the next stool. Thin jacket. No gloves. A smudge of grease on his cheekbone. His eyes are startlingly blue.
He nods at the hidden papers.
It’s a newspaper.
Is it? Looks like a fish wrapper to me. Good for drafts.
Edith stiffens. She grips her mug tighter.
It’s honest work.
Thomas leans an elbow on the counter. He isn't smiling, but he isn't angry.
Honest to who? The Committee of 1000? My dad worked thirty years for the railway. Broke two fingers. Got a cough that won’t quit.
He takes a sip of his coffee. Eyes on Edith.
He asked for a wage he could live on. They called him a Bolshevik and hired a man with a club to take his spot.
Edith stares into the black liquid in her cup. Her face burns.
I just sell them.
(Softly)
I know. Everyone’s just doing a job. That’s the problem.
The BELL above the door JINGLES violently.
A blast of frigid air cuts through the steam.
BILL (50s) stomps in. Heavy-set. Florid face. A white armband on his sleeve.
Two other SPECIALS flank him.
Bill scans the room. He sees the Strikers. Then he sees Thomas.
He smiles. It’s not a nice smile.
Well, look what we have here. One of the little Bolsheviks, trying to warm his revolutionary blood.
The cafe goes dead silent. A spoon FREEZES mid-stir.
Thomas doesn't turn. He lifts his mug slowly.
It’s a free country, Bill. Or so they say.
Bill steps forward. He looms over Thomas’s shoulder.
Not for your kind. You got a lot of nerve showing your face. After what your mob did at the Vulcan Iron Works.
Bill’s hand rests on his truncheon. The leather creaks.
Edith shrinks against the counter. She stares at the loose thread on her glove.
You mean after we stood in a line and asked not to starve?
Thomas sets his mug down. Hard.
Bill leans in. The violence is seconds away.
THUMP.
A heavy sound from the counter.
Cathy has placed a fresh, steaming pot on the warmer.
She holds the old pot. She looks directly at Bill.
More coffee?
Her voice is flat. calm. Louder than a shout.
Bill blinks. He looks at the pot. Then at Cathy.
He looks around the room. Everyone is watching.
The tension hangs, suspended by the steam.
Bill grunts. A sound of defeat.
Forget it.
He turns away. Gestures to his men.
They stomp to a vacant table. Chairs SCRAPE loudly against the floor.
The room exhales.
Thomas pushes his empty mug forward. His hand shakes, just a little.
I think I will have a little more, Cathy. Thank you.
Cathy pours. She doesn't smile.
Thomas looks at Edith. He nods.
LATER
The cafe is quieter. Thomas is gone. The Strikers are gone.
Bill and his men sit in sullen silence at their table.
Edith sits alone at the counter.
She looks out the window.
Snow has started to fall. Big, fat flakes swirling in the streetlamp light.
Edith watches the snow through the steam. Her reflection is a ghost in the glass.
She looks down at her hands. They are pink now. Alive.
She looks at the two newspapers tucked under the counter.
She makes a decision.
She pulls her gloves on. Flexes her fingers.
She stands up.
She leaves the two newspapers on the stool.
She turns and walks to the door.
EXT. STREET - CONTINUOUS
Edith steps out into the snow.
The wind still howls, but she doesn't hunch.
She looks up and down the street. The world is white and gray.
She starts walking. Fast. Purposeful.
She disappears into the storm.