morning. tom and maggie sit at the kitchen table. from the living room, we can hear a-kids' morning show on the television. tom is wearing jeans and a phone company uniform shirt. maggie is staring at him. they keep their voices low.
jake sits at the kitchen table in his pajamas, eating a bowl of cereal. maggie, in work clothes, is walking back and forth behind him, talking on the phone, finishing her makeup, drinking coffee, and doing the dishes. maggie hi, adriana, it's maggie. listen, our baby-sitter just backed out on us for next friday night -- jake turns and looks at the empty chair next to him. he smiles at it. then he giggles. he covers his mouth.
in the kitchen, a letter is waiting in the tray of an old fax machine on the counter. maggie stops in the doorway, staring at the floor. muddy footprints lead into and out of the kitchen, through the door to the back. thick chunks of wet mud are everywhere.
maggie site at the kitchen table, reading the letter that came in on the fax. tom comes into the room behind her, pauses in the doorway, composing himself. she keeps reading. he sighs, heavily. she doesn't turn around. he goes to the refrigerator and takes out a carton of orange juice. he takes two glasses from a cupboard and sits down at the table opposite her. he fills both glasses and puts one in front of her. she looks up at him as he drains his. he pauses, staring at her.
tom gets a screwdriver from a tool drawer in the kit-hen.