INT. HALLWAY - DAY
BARRY (48), wearing a threadbare sweater and thick wool socks, slams his shoulder into a swollen basement door.
The wood GROANS. It does not budge.
Barry steps back. His breath plumes in the frigid air.
He looks at the thermostat. It reads sixty. He taps the glass. The needle doesn't move.
INT. KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS
A layoff notice sits on the table. 'Encyclopedia Company'.
Barry stares at the paper. He touches the sharp corner of the page.
INT. LIVING ROOM - MOMENTS LATER
Barry sinks into a sagging armchair.
A stack of pristine, faux-leather encyclopedias sits on the end table. Unopened.
He grabs a magazine: *The Self-Sufficient Yeoman*. The paper is cheap, gray.
He flips pages. Past diagrams of solar heaters. He stops.
INSERT - MAGAZINE ARTICLE:
"Harnessing Lagomorphic Thermogenesis" by Alistair Finch.
BACK TO SCENE
Barry reads. He leans forward. He reads it again.
He grabs an envelope from the side table—a gas bill with a red "PAST DUE" stamp.
He fishes a pencil from his pocket. He starts to scribble. Fast. Manic.
Numbers. Multiplications. BTU conversions. He circles a final figure. He underscores it twice.
INT. HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS
Barry stands before the basement door. The envelope is crushed in his fist.
He hurls his weight against the wood.
CRACK.
The jamb splinters. The door swings open into darkness.
INT. KITCHEN - LATER
MARGE (48) stands at the sink, hands submerged in gray, soapy water. She does not turn around.
It's not a furnace *made* of rabbits, Marge. It's a symbiotic heating system.
Barry slams the envelope onto the table. He anchors it with a salt shaker.
Closed-loop. Metabolic rates. The heat rises. It warms the floorboards. It's physics.
Marge pulls her hands from the water. Her knuckles are red, chapped.
You want to put fifty rabbits in our basement.
Finch's Law of Thermal Conversion says—
Who is Finch?
A genius.
Where will the droppings go?
Fertilizer! High-nitrogen. Tomatoes the size of softballs. Self-sufficiency.
The basement floods in April.
Raised platforms. Two-by-fours. I have a plan.
Marge turns. She looks at the thermostat in the hall. She rubs her elbows.
Cost?
Guy in Rockford. Surplus stock. Ten a head.
We don't have four hundred dollars.
It's an investment. We save a thousand on oil. By March, we're in profit.
Barry steps closer. He smells of cold sweat and desperation.
Marge. Please.
Marge looks at the layoff notice on the table. Then at Barry.
Get fifty. If we're going to fail, we might as well fail big.
EXT. BOWLING ALLEY PARKING LOT - DAY
GUS (60s), missing front teeth and smelling of diesel, drops a wire cage onto the asphalt.
CLANG.
Inside, white rabbits scramble. Their fur is matted yellow. They look terrified.
Healthy as horses. You got the cash?
Barry hands over a thick wad of bills. Gus wets his thumb, counting.
INT. FORD PINTO - DAY
Cages are jammed into every inch of the hatchback. The suspension GROANS.
Barry sits in the driver's seat. The smell of ammonia is thick.
He reaches for the dashboard heater.
He turns the knob to OFF.
INT. BASEMENT - NIGHT
Dark. Damp.
Fifty rabbits in cages line the walls. Rows of wire and fur.
The sound is overwhelming. A rhythmic, wet CHEWING.
Barry tapes a thermometer to a wooden support beam.
He steps back. He watches the red line.
It sits at fifty-two degrees.
Barry crosses his arms. He waits.