CHARACTERS JIM FINGAL EMILY PENROSE JOHN DAGATA NOTES Although the emails are written to be projected “on screen,” projec- tions are not required. Any theaters for which projecting text is prohibitively difficult are encouraged to find their own methods for bringing the emails to life. ‘Text in brackets [ ] is meant to be unspoken, a guide for the actors only.THE LIFESPAN OF A FACT As the house lights dim we hear the voice of essayist John D/Agata (40s-60s). There may be one or two large projection screens suspended. JOHN. (V.0.) “On the same day in Las Vegas when sixteen-year- old Levi Presley jumped from the observation deck of the 1,149- foot tower of the Stratosphere Hotel and Casino, lap dancing was temporarily banned in the city’s thirty-four licensed strip clubs, archaeologists unearthed parts of the world’s oldest bottle of Tabasco- brand sauce from beneath a bar called Buckets of Blood, and a woman from Mississippi beat a chicken named Ginger in a thirty- five-minute long game of tic-tac-toe.” As John continues, the lights come up on the Manhattan office of a high-end magazine, the sort that sells advertisements for expensive watches, cars, clothing, liquor, and jewelry, while covering celebrity news and occasionally printing significant literary work, Emily Penrose (late 40s to 60s), the Editor-in-Chief, sits at her desk reading a slim (fifteen pages or so) stapled sheaf of pages. The single important set design detail is that she has a small framed photograph on her desk, facing her directly— not facing visitors. “On that day in Las Vegas when Levi Presley died, five others died from two types of cancer, four from heart attacks, three because of strokes. It was a day of two suicides by gunshot as well as a suicide from hanging.” Emily flips to the last page. She places the essay on her desk 5and starts rapidly, sharply typing on her computer. EMILY. [To: Editorial From: Emily Penrose] Hey, everyone: In light of recent events, were bumping “Congres- sional Spouses” and going with the John D’Agata piece originally slated for February. It is suddenly and tragically timely. The photography has been in and ready but the copy needs a final fact check. ‘The right volunteer will QUICKLY comb through it for press next Monday. Find me your best person. I'll buy them a pack of red pens. [—Emily] On screen: WEDNESDAY “Wednesday” fades, replaced by the words of her email as she types it. To: EDITORIAL From: EMILY PENROSE Hey, everyone: In light of recent events, we're bumping “Congres- sional Spouses” and going with the John Digata piece originally slated for February, It is suddenly and tragically timely. The photography has been in and ready but the copy needs a final fact check. The right volunteer will QUICKLY comb through it for press next Monday. Find me your best person. I'll buy them a pack of red pens. —Emily Quick blackout, then full lights back up. Jim Fingal (mid-20s) now sits opposite Emily, as she reads his résumé. EMILY. Okay, Jim Fingal, so you're interning with Bob down in Editorial? JIM. Yes. EMILY. How long you been with us? JIM. Ah, just under six months. EMILY. And what's Bob got you doing? JIM. Apart from making coffee, which I think he makes me do as a joke, research, copy-editing, that sort of thing. EMILY, Tell me about yourself— JIM. I was a joint concentrator in Computer Science and Journalism. 6I wrote a few stories and some editorials for the Crimson. Beat, Harvard. No reaction. And whatever jobs I got after college were just marking time until 1 got here. Beat. Where I’m really happy. His eyes survey the walls/shelves, noting knick-knacks, awards, framed magazine covers. Wow! Is that the Wall of Fame? (Looks closer; a bit starstruck.} What is that, fifty years of autographed covers...? EMILY. Fifty-two, He looks at another spot on the wall. JIM. What's... KanKA Kee? EMILY. KANkakee. Illinois. Our beloved production facility. ‘The largest in the country. They do everyone—us, Hearst, Condé Nast, Time Inc., Simon & Schuster. The ones that are left. Beat. Now then, why are you here? JIM. Why am I—? EMILY. What do you want to do? JIM. Well, whatever it is you want me to do, EMILY. That's a cute answer, But what plans—? JIM. Where do J see myself in five years? EMILY. Something like that, JIM. Well, my next step is this. Trying to get a chance to fact check this article. EMILY, Bob tells me you're talented and trustworthy. JIM. That's very kind. EMILY, So you're looking to stay at the magazine? JIM. Absolutely. Particularly given the kind of work Pve seen thismagazine is capable of. A beat. EMILY. You don't like the direction? JIM. ‘That's not— EMILY. No, I think it’s wonderful that you have standards. Just as long as you understand the compromises we often have to make between material that pushes the envelope— JIM. —and the stuff that sells magazines. Absolutely. And ads, EMILY. You get it. JIM. I try to. EMILY. 'The assignment is a final fact check for me personally. The John D’Agata piece. I need it quickly and the special volunteer will give up their weekend. JIM. Yes, that sounds like fun. Well, not fun— EMILY. So youd be up for it. JIM. John D’Agata? Absolutely. EMILY. You've heard of him. JIM. David Foster Wallace called him one of America’s most signifi- cant living writers. He thinks essays are an irreducible literary art form, like fiction and poetry— EMILY. You knew about him, or you googled him on your way up here? JIM. I've read some of his work. But yeah, I searched and found out what I could. So...kind of...both? EMILY. Okay. Now tell me what you bring to the project. JIM. Well, there's my experience at the Crimson—I did some fact checking there—and I really think I can help you because of other skills of mine: C++, Python, Lisp— EMILY. And what are those? JIM. Computer languages. Well, scripting languages most of them— EMILY. Okay. JIM. I can write custom searches and automated batch apps that grab a lot more information than most people usually get. Most 8people just kind of use Google, My way is both faster and— EMILY. Bob said you were fast but we need you to be careful. JIM. I’m careful. EMILY. ‘Tell me how youd go about it. Fifteen pages, Nine sections. JIM. Checking the facts? EMILY. Yes. How would you check the facts? JIM. T'll...check the facts. Research. The internet. The phone. The library. I'd batch-automate all I could but~ EMILY. Youd check all the details, make sure they're correct. John’s been known to take his little liberties, so if there’s a place mentioned, make sure its spelled correctly. If there’s a person mentioned, confirm they exist. We need to make a good-faith effort—confirm every detail. JIM. Be rigorous. EMILY. Don't be roughshod, JIM. Never. You get the full Jim. EMILY. ‘This essay is an opportunity for us to do meaningful work. ‘To create the conversation, to drive it, and I hope, in this case, to help. JIM. Hold on... (Writing) ...create...drive...help, EMILY. ‘The story itself is shattering. Kid killed himself jumping from the tower of a hotel-casino in Vegas. JIM. (Writing.) Suicide... Vegas... EMILY, But the essay is so much more. Sense trom immeasurable tragedy, The history and meaning of Vegas. Despair. Yearning. What it is to be human in a city. JIM. (Writing.) Human in a city. Yes. Got it. EMILY. Why does a boy kill himself? Is there any comprehending the grief it causes? How ruinous it ist Is there such a thing as consolation, or is even the idea an insult? JIM. (Writing) Consolation. Comfort? Question mark. Got it. EMILY. Now forget all that. JIM. Uh. EMILY. Don't get sucked in. JIM. No. Right.EMILY, It’s your job to see the rational details. JIM. Check the facts. EMILY. How's your weekend? Any plans? JIM. No. EMILY. Has to be finished by first thing Monday morning. JIM. Great! I can do Monday. That's all day today, tomorrow, Friday, and the weekend. Sure, no sweat. EMILY. Now look, I know this writer. This is a very detailed but delicate piece and he’s known to push boundaries. ‘This is not a piece of cake. JIM. Brilliant people can be difficult. EMILY. No Harvard swagger, okay? JIM. No. EMILY. I do mean Monday. JIM. Yes. EMILY. No extensions. No excuses. Okay, I'll have security activate your pass for the weekend. JIM. Td prefer to do this at home, if that’s— EMILY. I don’t want you getting distracted. JIM. Right. EMILY. Keep a log on the— JIM. It’s just that the firewall here is pretty locked down. You know, probably to keep us from watching porn all day, but it impairs certain avenues of research. EMILY. Ifyou think you can handle it, I'll trust you. Just as long as it’s done by first thing Monday. JIM. Absolutely. EMILY. All right, I've just shared it to the cloud drive and the pass- word is my last name. She mouses around her computer desktop, clicks a couple of times, There’ a swoosh sound. Jim’s phone dings. JIM. There it is. Jim pokes his screen a couple times to access the file, looks at 10the text of the essay, then jokingly weighs his phone in his hand. Heavy. No chuckle from Emily, Ah. Okay. (Swiping rapidly through the essay.) Oh, I could do this on a bicycle. EMILY. Don't. JIM. No. EMILY. Good. Keep everything on the shared drive so we can check your progress. Now. Over there, we have John’s notes and backup. She points over at an accordion file pocket, e.g. a Redweld, on a table. JIM. This? Jim reaches the Redweld. EMILY, No, not that. Under, Underneath it are two pages. He picks them up. JIM. This? EMILY, ‘That's it. JIM. (Concerned.) Ah. EMILY. You can handle this, right? JIM. Yeah, let's do this thing. He turns and starts to leave. EMILY. If you need help— Jim has nearly reached the door of her office. JIM. I won't need help. He exits. Blackout. On screen: THURSDAY Lights up, Jim renters, tie a mess, one shirt flap out of his slacks. JIM. I need help. Seeing him, Emily pushes a button on her phone, Not yet known to us or Jim, she is on a conference call and has just muted it. Throughout the following, she moves between the lltwo conversations without pause or warning, Separately, her computer beeps. Her eyes glance at it, then return to Jim, EMILY. What is it? JIM. I'm not interrupting? EMILY. You are, but this takes priority. JIM. I didn't want to bother you. EMILY. You're starting to bother me. JIM. Ah, Pause. She lets him suffer for a moment, then grins to signify she’s joking. Oh, Right. EMILY. You're doing a good job. I took a look at the log on the drive, I like the way you set up the spreadsheet— Emily pushes the button on her phone. Tell him to take a FLYING FUCK. Jim’s eyes widen. I don't care if “Congressional Spouses” was ready—it'll be ready next year, She mutes her phone again. (To Jim, without missing a beat.) —easy to read, well organized. What's the trouble? Emily’s computer makes another noise. Her eyes dart to it. JIM. Do you need to—? EMILY. No, that’s just a group—wait, do I? No. Go on. JIM. Oh, right! So, the article. EMILY. Yes. What about it? She holds up a finger, pushes the button on her phone. We hold production for this because it’s better. Pushes button again, back to Jim, Go on. JIM. ‘The article is really good. EMILY. Yes? 12JIM. Best thing I’ve ever seen in the magazine. Her computer makes another noise. She glances at it, triaging. EMILY. Bold assessment, but J agree. JIM. Daring way to push the envelope, making an indelible statement about life and death, A beat. Emily's computer makes another noise. If you need to get that— EMILY. It can wait. What about the article? JIM, Literate, eloquent. A beautiful piece of work— EMILY. I got it. JIM. Yeah. Okay. So, there's just a few things. EMILY, (Pushes the buiton on her phone.) If they want overtime, fine. ‘This is the article. Okay? This is the one. She disconnects the call. A beat. Good grief, She calnis herself. So what is it? JIM. Is this a bad time? EMILY. ‘There are no good times, and I havea call in seven minutes. Please proceed. As you just heard, | am holding Kankakee for you. JIM. Oh, god, um, okay. (Paging through his notebook.) So barring what I can confirm through official documents—coroner reports, police reports, etc.— EMILY. I did say Monday. JIM. Right. Right. Okay, he says that on the day Levi died, “lap dancing was temporarily banned by the city,” but that doesw’t check out. The day before Levi died, the Las Vegas Sun wrote about a possible up- coming ban on touching strippers in fully nude establishments, but there's nothing about a possible ban on lap dancing altogether in top- less or even so-called go-go bars, where nipple nudity is essentially banned, but of course establishments get around that using pasties He riffles through his notes as he speaks. Emily’s email noise happens again, And then twice more. 13Also, he says there were thirty-four licensed strip clubs in Vegas; his reference is Adult Industry News, which wrote that “since 1999 the number of strip clubs in Las Vegas has skyrocketed from three to sixteen” but then claims there were “thirty-one topless or all-nude clubs.” So even if we trust “Adult Industry News,” it doesn’t say thirty- four strip clubs, plus it contradicts itself. Emily taps her touchpad decisively. EMILY. Shorter sentences. JIM. John gives one number for strip clubs, But his source not only does not confirm that number, it contradicts itself by providing two different numbers. (To himself.) But maybe that’s because—wait, though, that brings up another problem, is he talking about topless bars or fully nude bars? Hereafter, Emily’s computer, phone, etc., occasionally makes a noise or otherwise distracts her, but, except as indicated, nothing she can't handle. EMILY. Jim— JIM. Though I guess they’re not necessarily bars; in fact, it's harder to get a full liquor license if you can see the vaginal area... like I'm guessing you can at this place, Pussy Rockets— He looks up at her, alarmed. Sorry, can I say...? EMILY. You may say Pussy Rockets. JIM. Great—yeah, he says “clubs,” which could indicate any place where people pay women to take off their clothes—but wait, is he including male establishments!? EMILY. Okay, first— JIM. I mean, ones where guys show their— EMILY. —first, this is great. You've got the hang of it, you're checking each fact. You're doing the job I instructed, and you're doing it really, really—the spreadsheet was a great start. I clearly picked the right person. JIM. The spreadsheet was important so you can filter the issues by— EMILY, And that’s your question? ‘The strip clubs?JIM. Well I have a couple others. One or two or a few more of these little details, There's this chicken— EMILY. How many? Details? JIM. Well, if you check where I marked “unresolved” you can see a few, Well, more than a few. Kind of a fair number, actually, EMILY. How many? JIM. How many—? EMILY. Ballpark? JIM. Well, kind of a lot. Do you mind if] just get in there— Jim starts fo go around her desk, reaching for her keyboard. Emily holds her hand up, firmly rejecting his movement. EMILY. Please don't. He jerks his hand back and notices the small, framed photo- graph on her desk facing her; not visitors. JIM. Sorry. That’s an interesting picture. She gestures sharply for him to step away. EMILY. Don't! JIM. (Flustered.) Yes. For an instant her eyes dart around and her mind races, surveying her various emails, iPads, phones, and all the time she’s lost during this meeting. EMILY. You know what? You should check all this with John. JIM. You mean, like, talle to him? EMILY, Email him. Introduce yourself, use my name. He's passion- ate about his work, but I've known him for a long time, and he always has time for people who are polite and intelligent. And you're polite and intelligent. Right? Are you? JIM. Of course! EMILY. So, I'll send you his contact info. Clear up whatever you have a question about. JIM. Okay. I think I can do that. EMILY. But stick to the facts. Don’t change anything with regard to the shape and intent of the piece. 15JIM. Stick to the facts. Got it. EMILY. You're Bob's guy so you know the difference. JIM. No, no. EMILY. No? JIM. I mean yes. I know the difference. Emily punches at her phone, sending Jim the contact info. Jim's phone tinkles as he receives the info. EMILY. Right away. JIM. Today. EMILY. Thanks for stopping by. JIM. ‘This is going well. EMILY. Just keep on, and keep it thorough. JIM. No problem. Yes. Great. EMILY. Great! JIM. ‘This is going well. EMILY, You said that. JIM. I know. it’s just—look, he’s kind ofa big writer, Don’t you think— EMILY, James, you are a professional. He is a professional. JIM. Yes, I think I got it. Lights down on Emily. Jim scrutinizes his notebook intently, ticking away with his pen; almost every single word he reads is a fact that has to be checked, He makes his way to his desk, “On the same day in Las Vegas when sixteen-year-old Levi Presley jumped from the observation deck of the 1,149-foot tower of the Stratosphere hotel and casino, lap dancing was temporarily banned in the city’s thirty-four licensed strip clubs...” Lights shift up. Jim is seated at his small desk. The desk ts strewn with papers, He starts typing an email to John DAgata. On screen: JIM. Dear John... Dear John, Delete “Dear John.” ‘Too formal. Hey John? Hey John? 16Jim shakes his head. Hey John!!! Jim winces. I sound crazy. Hey. John. Tm Jim Fingal, the intern assigned to fact check your article about Las Vegas, I've discovered a discrepancy between the number of sirip clubs you're claiming (34) and the num- ber given in your source (31), Just email or cail me at the number in my signature block. And, great article! Yours, Jim Fingal. And...send. Delete the question mark. Hey John!!! Delete “Hey john!!!” Hey. John. Tm Jim Fingal, the intern assigned to fact check your article about Las Vegas. I've discovered a discrepancy between the number ofstrip dubs you're claiming (34) and the num- ber given in your source (31), Just email or call meat the number in in my signature block. And, great article! Yours, Jim Fingal Nervously, he returns to work. After a few moments, a tone sounds—an email has arrived. The screen clears and John's email appears on it. JOHN. (0.5.) Article? From: Jonn D’Acara To: JIM FINGAL Article? Pause. fim is confused. He frantically types another email. The screen clears, then: JIM. This is John D’Agata, the writer right? Jim receives an email. JOHN. (O.S.) Yes. thisis John Dagata the writer. From: Jim FINGAL To: Joun D'Aqata This is John DAgata, the writer right? From: Joun TYAGATA To: Jim Fincar Yes. ‘This is John D’Agata the writer, Lights up on Emily working in her office; her head jerks up as a thought strikes her. EMILY. Shit. 17[From: Emily Penrose ‘To: Jim Fingal] Hey Jim, sorry forgot to tell you. When you email John don't call the piece an article. HE HATES THAT. From: EMILY PENROSE To: Jim FINGAL Hey Jim, sorry forgot to tell you. When you email John don't call the piece an article. HE HATES THAT. She sends the email; Jim receives it... JIM. Ah, fuck! He receives another email. JOHN. (O.S.) [don't write articles. JIM. I know that now!! From: JOHN D'AGATA To: JIM FINGAL I don't write articles. Jim types rapidly, but before he can finish he receives another email. JOHN. (0.S.) | wrote an essay. JIM. Essay! Yes! Sorry! Just tell me how many strip clubs there were! JOHN. (0.8.) Hi Jim. ‘There's a miscommunication be- cause the essay is fine. Thanks for your help, John, JIM. Yes, it’s more than fine! It’s terrific! But my job is to fact check the article. (To himself.) Crap! Essay! From: JoHN DAGATA To: Jim FINGAL I wrote an essay. From: JimM Finca To: Jonn D'AGATA Apologies, my confusion. Could you please clarify the number of strip clubs? From: JOHN D'AGATA To: JIM FINGAL HiJim, ‘There's a miscommunication be- cause the essay is fine. Thanks for your help, John. Its more than fine, it’s terrific. But I do need to fact check the article. The word “essay” replaces“article” Just tell me if it was thirty-four Was it 34 or 31 strip clubs? or thirty-one. Please advise and I can fix it. A moment passes, and Jim's phone rings. JIM. Gah! He answers. Lights reveal John D’Agata (late 40s-late 50s) for the first time. He is seated in a comfortable, worn, and perhaps slightly feminine (e.g., floral-patterned) armchair. Hello? JOHN. Is this Jim Fingal? JIM. Uh, yes, this is Jim Fingal. JOHN. Listen Jim Fingal: You're not going to fix anything, Nothing's broken. JIM. Mr, D’Agata, I think we got off to a bad start. Please, let me clarify— JOHN. ‘There's nothing to clarify. JIM. It’s policy— JOHN. “Policy” does not— JIM, —to fact check all nonfiction pieces. ‘There are a lot of facts in your piece and your claims sometimes get a little inflammatory. So could you help me out with that number? Pause. JOHN. Inflammatory? JIM. Not—inflammatory— JOHN. ‘Then what? JIM. —just—hard-hitting—in an intriguing way. Sorry, wrong choice of words, Pause. JOHN. Why are you doing this? JIM. Excuse me? JOHN. Who are you? JIM, Who am I? 19JOHN. Why are YOU doing this? JIM. Why am I doing this? JOHN. Who ARE you? JIM. It’s my job. JOHN. Yes, but why? JIM. Why is it my job? JOHN. Yes. JIM. Because Emily Penrose told me to. Look, we got off to a bad— JOHN. How ald are you? JIM. I don’t see why that matters. JOHN. It matters. How old are you? Pause. JIM. Younger than you? JOHN. Let me give you some advice— JIM. | really just want the exact number— JOHN. Ask yourself why Emily Penrose would trust this essay to someone like you, JIM, I understand— JOHN. An intern. JIM. —your frustration. JOHN. Seriously, why? JIM. Talent and dedication? JOHN. Are you asking me or telling me? JIM. ‘Telling you? JOHN. No, I'm telling you. She's giving you busywork. Shes getting you out of her hair. JIM. If you say so, but— JOHN. You're not Daniel Menaker and this isn’t Mr. Shawn's New Yorker. Check a few dates and get it back to her, she'll say “fine” and everyone will be happy. JIM. But | kind of want to do a good job. This is an opportunity for me. 20JOHN. Sure, whatever. Just don’t overestimate your importance in the whole process. JIM. Uh— JOHN. Open quotes Emily Penrose close quotes knows what kind of writer I am. We've worked together many times. She knows I’m not beholden to every detail. JIM. She said you take the occasional liberty. JOHN, — JIM. —kind of like a compliment! JOHN, I take liberties with things that deepen the central truth of the piece. Don't get bogged down in the details, keep your eye on the big picture. Except don’t, because that’s my job. JIM. And Emily’s. JOHN. Eh. JIM. I'm sorry, but if there's a discrepancy, | need to note it. JOHN. Note whatever the fuck you want— JIM. Okay, there's no need to swear. JOHN. She's fine with what I turned in. It’s been through the editing process. Emily herself— JIM. I understand that. I do. I like the essay. But how many strip clubs, and can you tell me where you got the information? Pause. JOHN. I used Adult Industry News, JIM. Thanks, that’s very helpful. And that’s a problem, because the magazine is confusing. JOHN. Yeah it is. So 1 picked thirty-four because I like the rhythm, Blackout. On screen: FRIDAY Lights up. fim is in Emily's office. Emily is typing and looking at her screen, JIM. He likes the rhythm?! Emily finishes what she was typing, then looks at Jim, refocusing 21on him, EMILY, Just find out what was accurate then. JIM. It says online there are currently twenty-nine strip clubs in Vegas~ EMILY. That's irrelevant. JIM. —so unless—well, it’s a little relevant—my point is that unless the number rose and then dropped again, which is not what you would expect, hes wrong. And between thirty-one and thirty four he likes the rhythm? EMILY. He's right about the rhythm. JIM. ‘They have the same number of syllables. EMILY. No, they don't. JIM. Yes, they do. EMILY, Yes, technically. JIM. Technically? EMILY. ‘They sound totally different. JIM. Yes, they’re different numbers. That's my point. EMILY. “Four” It's a diphthong. The “uh” in “wun” is a pure vowel JIM. I don't hear it. EMILY, You will. JIM. We still don't know how many strip clubs there were. (Off her look.) | bet I can find the yellow pages from— EMILY. You're my detective, Go detect. JIM. All right. He turns to leave. Her eyes return to her monitor. Jim reaches the door, then turns and looks over at her. After a moment she realizes he’ still there and looks up. EMILY. What? JIM. Emily, is what I'm doing important? She’ still working. EMILY. Is what— JIM. In this whole process. I don’t want to do some job that's just busywork. 22EMILY. If you're starting to get worried about making deadline— JIM. No. No. I want to be helpful. I want to do it. EMILY. I said “do your best.” I did not say “try and then give up? I said “do your best.” That means a solid good-faith effort. JIM. Fact checking isn’t usually this tight of a turnaround— EMILY, Come on, you must have had tight deadlines at the Crimson. JIM. Yes. Of course. EMILY. You said you could do it by Monday. JIM. I’m almost positive I can. EMILY, Please don’t say it like that— JIM. No, I can. He turns to leave. EMILY, Jim? Do you know what it is we are doing here? JIM. We're fact checking? EMILY. You asked me if what you're doing is important. Well, let me tell you there is nothing more important than story. ‘To me, anyway. What is story to you? JIM. Story comes from the Greek historia—an accurate retelling— EMILY. It’s how you organize your life—all life. Scientists say that life is atoms and forces and fluids and genomes. But we live in stories. Events organized to make ourselves known to each other and to history. Organized in a way that gives our lives meaning. JIM. [ understand. EMILY, 1 don't think you do. Because if you did, you wouldn't be asking me if what you're doing is important. This is important. I have been here for who knows how long, and I have scen that the right story at the right time changes the way people look at the events in their own lives. ‘this is the right time. And J depend on you to get the story right. Now go get it done. JIM. [ will. Jim starts to leave. Oh, in the story—you know when he says “the wind was blowing hard but did not come into my house”? 23She's starting to lose patience with this one. EMILY. Yes? JIM. Do you think he just meant the door was closed? Or what? Why would—or wouldn’t—the wind come in his house? EMILY. I’m giving you what my first editor gave me, a chance to prove yourself. Lights fade on Emily. Jim makes his way across the stage, reading and considering the piece. Lighting shifts, suggesting transition, though not to any particular location in place and time. JIM. “On the same day in Las Vegas when sixteen-year-old Levi Presley jumped from the observation deck of the 1,149-foot tower of the Stratosphere hotel and casino, lap dancing was temporarily banned in the city’s thirty-four licensed strip clubs, archacologists unearthed parts of the world’s oldest bottle of Tabasco-brand sauce from beneath a bar called Buckets of Blood, and a woman from Mississippi beat a chicken named Ginger in a thirty-five-minute long game of tic-tac-toe” Blackout. On screen: SUNDAY MORNING Lights up on Emily, now wearing pajamas, presumably at home. Her phone is ringing—its Beethoven's Ninth—“Ode to Joy.” She looks at the caller ID and picks up the phone. EMILY, John! Lights on John, phone in hand. JOHN. What is a Jim Fingal, and why is it fucking with my essay? EMILY. Did you look at the photography? You have to admit it’s gorgeous— JOHN. Yeah, look— EMILY. Spectacular, I think. JOHN. And in such a beautiful FedEx box. EMILY. Everyone here just loves the piece. It’s everything we wanted. And it’s bringing out the best in the entire team— 24JOHN. What about Marianne? She's stil] the head of fact checking, isn't she? EMILY. She's not doing much, John, she died four years ago. JOHN. Well, who is head of— EMILY. ‘There's no fact-checking department per se since the restructure, JOHIN. Restructure? Per se? EMILY. We flattened the management tree, reenginecred everyone towards a streamlined and actionable editorial process, so all new hires in Editorial also train to be fact checkers, No full-time fact- checking department, we added functionality in digital informatics JOHN. Marvelous. Look, I don’t know where this Jim Fingal came from but— EMILY. Jim Fingal is a very bright young man. Very capable. JOHN. Of what? EMILY. Fine. But like a certain writer I know he's dedicated and passionate. We're just trying to avoid liability on this thing, and it'll all be over in...twenty-two hours? So just give him a break. JOHN. How would I do that? What do you suggest? EMILY. What do you mean? JOHN, How should I give him a break? EMILY. Be cordial if you can, for one thing, cut him some slack. He's young. JOHN. Shall | give him a break now? EMILY. Yes, JOHN. 1 mean shall J cut him some slack now? Thank him for helping the team? EMILY. Not—this second, but I'm sure hed appreciate a note. He'll probably frame it. JOHN. Take him out to breakfast. Should I take him out to breakfast? EMILY, Well—that would be great, when you're in town— JOHN. Why wait? EMILY. Why wait for what? 25JOHN. Breakfast. I could just take him out for breakfast now. EMILY. (Confused.) 1 dan't— JOIN. Or maybe when he wakes up. EMILY. Wakes up? Lights up. John's living room. John’s house is humble. It used to be his mother’, and the homey touches of an elderly working-class mom are still evident. There’ a kitchenette in one corner of the room. The front door is on one side of the stage, beside the kitchenette, and another door is on the op- posite side of the stage. A narrow staircase leads up to the second floor. Underneath the staircase is a third door. As far as furniture, there is at least a small table with one or two chairs, a couch and coffee table, and the armchair we saw John sitting in earlier. Jim is asleep on John’s couch. JOHN. He's asleep. ON MY COUCH, Emily. HERE IN LAS VEGAS! Beat. IN NEVADA! EMILY. What? JOHN. Oh, I'm sorry, do you not know where your employee is? Maybe you want to call Human Resources? EMILY. He's where?? JOHN. On my couch. EMILY. He's on your COUCH? JOHN. Yep he is. Right here! Hey, hey sunshine! Jim stirs. JIM. Whuh— JOHN. You want some coffee? JIM. Coffeed be great. JOHN. Hed like coffee, Emily. You know how he takes it? EMILY. Let me talk to him. John drops/throws the phone on/at Jim. JIM. Ow. 26JOHN. Call for you. JIM. Wait, a—hello? EMILY. Jim?? JIM. Hey—Emily. What's happening? EMILY. What's happening? What the hell are you doing in Las Vegas? JIM. Oh, ha, yeah, funny story. See, I had to come here anyway— for, for a, uh, wedding. College roommate. Well, a wedding party— they got married last year. EMILY. Get to the point. JIM. You said to check everything, and it was kind of late and I was over at the Stratosphere hotel checking out that red-brick pavilion— (To Jolin, too.) which is not red, it’s brown, and is not a pavilion, EMILY. Jim— JIM. And then that line kept gnawing at me—you know, where he says “the wind was blowing hard but did not come in my house.” ‘Then | thought “That sounds a little defensive, is his house in fact ramshackle and totally drafty?” JOHN. Weatherstripping! JIM. So I just came by this morning, you know, to check it out. I was blowing in his doorjamb and he came out and fell over me. JOHN. I was going for a run! I'm lucky I didn't kill myself! JIM. Look, uh, wait, (Fumbling the phone.) 1 dropped the ph— Emily, I know it could seem eccentric, but with the wedding out here, it got kind of late, and I just... (Remnembers,) Wedding party. EMILY. You didn't say anything about a wedding party in Las Vegas. JIM, I didn’t? EMILY. | specifically asked you about your weekend— JIM. I thought I— EMILY. No. You didn't. JIM. [ didn’t want to bother you and—just a little research before my flight back to New York, ‘That’s not—I mean—this is totally an accident, 27EMILY, When’ your flight? JIM. Tonight. EMILY. Please get out of there. JIM. Where should—? EMILY. Go to the airport and get on the next flight to New York. JIM. Okay, I'm sorry, but— EMILY. Leave immediately. JIM. Yes. Yes. Of course. EMILY, Put John on and let me try to fix this. JIM. Shed like to talk to you. Jim hands the phone to John. JOHN. Hi, Emily! EMILY. ‘There are no words— JOHN. Take a shot. EMILY. Jim says this was a mistake— JOHN. No, he didn't. EMILY. —I don’t know what he was thinking, but he’s going to go. Okay? He's coming back to New York and we'll finish up his check and get you our edits— JOHN. Edits? EMILY. Suggestions. JOHN. Suggestions. Can't hardly wait. EMILY. Just get him out of there, there's a time crunch here. ‘Thank you for being so good about this. Is he leaving? Jim is struggling to put on a large, overstuffed backpack. JOHN. | think he’s mating. EMILY. What? JOHN. He's leaving. EMILY. Okay, We'll talk soon. John hangs up. Lights down on Emily. JOHN. You know the way to the airport? JIM. I can find it, Um—sorry, I didn't mean to totally crap out on 28your couch, JOHN, Got everything? Jim reaches the front door and opens it. JIM. I think so. JOHN. Travel safe, John turns away, starts walking randomly away from Jim, tired. Jim can’t restrain himself. He crosses to John, getting to within a few feet of his back. JIM. I do have one question, JOHN. (Startled.) What?! What is it?! Recovering, he starts approaching Jim menacingly, driving him back toward the front door. JIM. (He hesitates.) Nah, PH get going. John opeus the front door. JOHN. Good idea. JIM. It’s just—~ John closes the door. JOHN. What? JIM. Okay. You say they found the world’s oldest bottle of Tabasco sauce beneath the Buckets of Blood Saloon, But they found it under- neath the Boston Saloon, which is fifty feet away. JOHN. So? JIM. So, we should change it, it’s wrong. JOHN, How so? JIM. Because it’s not correct? JOHN. Do you pay any attention to prepositions? They found it underneath the Boston Saloon. But by the same token it was found beneath, at a lower level than, the Buckets of Blood Saloon next door, “Beneath” is exactly correct. JIM. That's not what most people understand by “beneath,” but okay. Jim starts to leave. But— JOHN. “Buckets of Blood” is more interesting than “Boston Saloon” And since they found the battle down—and just a few feet away—the 29claim is fine. You're fact checking this, right? Not editing it? JIM. Just fact checking. JOHN. So long. Jim opens the front door. JIM. Oh, and—that chicken. JOHN. What? JIM. Yeah, never mind. JOHN. What about the chicken? JIM. ‘The thirty-five-minute tic-tac-toe game. You say the woman who beat the chicken was from Mississippi, but by that time shed been a Las Vegas resident for years. | called her. JOHN. You did what?! JIM. I found the original article, looked her up. I spoke to her. JOHN. And on whose authority? JIM. Emily Penrose. She told me to check things out, so ’'m checking em out. JOHN, Jesus! The woman needs to be from a place other than Las Vegas to underscore the transient nature of the city, Almost every- one here is from someplace else. JIM. And that game didn’t happen until August. A month after Levi Presley died. Not the same day, like you said. JOHN. It was as much a part of the atmosphere of that summer as Levi jumping from the top of the casino. JIM. Then isnt that how it should be framed? JOHN. Readers care how events play out on a deeper level. They care about the meaning behind the confluence of the events. JIM. But events didn’t conflue the way you said. JOHN. “Conflue” is not a word. JIM. If you say an event occurred, readers need to trust that it occurred, ‘This piece rests on the weight of a lot of details; it’s problematic for you to wash your hands of their accuracy. JOHN. Things don't rest on weights. Weights rest on things. I'm not washing my hands of anything. I’m saying there's a world of 30facts to choose from. The wrong facts get in the way of the story. JIM. The “wrong” facts? And that means what exactly? JOHN. Kid grows up on welfare. No dad in the picture. Gets kicked out of high school. That's not a story. It’s just details. JIM. I don’t see what— JOHN. You hear those facts and you come to certain conclusions that have nothing to do with reality. “Facts” privilege some people, Other people they fuck over. JIM. You're talking about you. You're the kid on welfare. JOHN. I'm letting you IN, Jim. Please take it as a compliment. JIM. But those facts exist. JOHN. Of course they EXIST; yeah, a liter of water at one atmo- sphere of pressure boils at a hundred degrees Celsius—hooray, Iet’s throw a fucking party and burn Shakespeare's sonnets. ‘The facts I was born to, barred from any security, financial or otherwise, put a bad taste in my mouth about your easy certainty that facts are some herd of purebred white horses galloping majestically, looking down their noses at ambiguity or suspicion or nuance. JIM. How come you were in a suit? JOHN. What? JIM. When you fell over me on the porch. You were wearing a suit. You told Emily you were going for a run. JOHN, I didn’t want to get into it. JIM. A job interview on a Sunday? JOHN. What does it matter? I'm not on trial here. JIM. No, I was just wondering. You said you were going for a run. Why were you ina suit? JOHN. I was going to Mass. JIM. I’m cool with that. JOHN. I didn’t ask. JIM. Can we just check with Emily on this chicken thing? The lady and the chicken. Jolin takes out his phone and stabs at a couple of buttons. 31JOHN. Can't have you angsting all the way back to New York. Emily’s phone rings, again the same ring tone. Lights up on Emily, She answers, EMILY, John. JOHN. Hello, Emily? EMILY. I’m so sorry about all that JOHN. Jim and I have a quick question. EMILY. He’ still there?! JOHN. Events have conflued. EMILY. What?! JOHN. Jim has a problem with the chicken. JIM. No, I don't! JOHN. Jim has a problem with the sentence about the chicken, JIM. Yes! EMILY. Put him on. Jim takes the phone. JIM. Hi, Emily! EMILY, Why are you not gone? JIM. John and I got to talking. EMILY. What is it with you and this chicken? JIM. The tic-tac-toe game didn’t happen the day Levi died, it happened more than a month after, and the woman who won the game wasn't from Mississippi. EMILY. All right. Look, you might have to stay out there to finish this at a hotel. What sentence is this? What paragraph is this? JIM. One. And one. EMILY. Wait, the first sentence, the first paragraph. ..of what section? JIM. One. Pause. EMILY. ‘This is the first sentence of the essay?! JIM. Yes. We are on sentence one. I've yet to resolve anything with John, I've only discussed, with you, this one sentence. So, if you'll 32look at the spreadsheet-— EMILY, Oh my God! JIM. I was thinking along the same lines. EMILY, Email me what you have. JIM. Yes, the spreadsheet is up to date. She starts looking at her phone screen, tapping buttons. EMILY. I’m opening it—uh. No, no, JIM. If you use Page Down— EMILY. No, Jim... Jim...this is a hundred and thirty pages, the essay was only fifteen pages! JIM. If you just use Page Down— Emily's swiping down, reading here and there. EMILY, Okay, that one could be a problem. This one’s unimportant. ‘That one’s just stupid! What the hell is this one? JIM, Keep paging down... EMILY. Shit. (Stops reading.) I'm flying out. JIM. Okay. (To John.) She's freaking out. EMILY. I'm flying out. Stay there. Get out of there, but stay there! She hangs up. Jim hands the phone back to John. JOHN. What did she say? JIM. She's flying out. JOHN. She's what? JIM. Mom's pissed. Blackout. On screen: SUNDAY EVENING Lights up. John is on the couch, grading student papers. The doorbell rings. John glances over, is absorbed. John looks out a window to see who's there. He goes to the front door, braces himself, and opens it. It is Jim, wearing his giant backpack. JOHN. Coyote fail. JIM. What? 33JOHN. The local wildlife has failed to feast on your bones. JIM. I thought you were saying I’m some kind of coyote. JOHN. That, too. JIM. Emily’s not here yet. JOHN. Should be soon. JIM. I can wait outside if you want? JOHN. Come on in. Jim goes to the smail table and starts taking off his backpack. JIM. 1 didn’t mean to cause trouble. JOHN. You are trouble. Want coffee? JIM. Is it like espresso? JOHN. It is like Maxwell House. JIM. Oh, that's great. ‘That's fine. I love Maxwell House. In the kitchenette, John pours Jim’ coffee. Jim starts unpack~ ing his backpack. JOHN. No one loves Maxwell House. They buy it to save money. Jim is dragging out multiple notebooks and sheaves of paper, putting them in orderly stacks. What is all that? JIM. My notes. Pause. I read that you teach. JOHN. You read correctly. JIM. Where? JOHN. UNLV. JIM. I would have thought somewhere more...prestigious. JOHN. My mom needed me here. JIM. Right. Of course. Pause. And you teach writing. JOHN. Yes. JIM. Creative writing? 34John arches his eyebrow. Was that a crack? JOHN, Drink your coffee. JIM. ‘This is good. JOHN. Do you take milk? JIM. Uh, no, this is—uh, well, yes. JOHN. I don’t have milk. John tries to resume working. Jim, mug in hand, starts exploring the room, i.e., its dimensions, doors, furniture, wallpaper. He makes his way to the door on the opposite side of the stage from the front door. He regards it, then gently, slowly runs his hand down the crack between the door and deorjamb, checking for the wind. Fine! Fire away. Jim zips over to the small table. JIM. We might as well use the time— JOHN. Fire away. JIM. Okay, you know the second sentence, JOHN. I do know the second sentence, Please say what you want to say. JIM. “Four people died from heart attacks that day.’ But the coroner recorded only two heart attacks. ‘That's your source, so it’s wrong right off the bat. And, in hospitals around the city, there were also five “cardiorespiratory arrests” and a “myocardial infarction.” So there were eight. JOHN. I like four. JIM. You “like” four? 1 keep hearing this. What is so great about “four"? JOHN. Listen. “On that day in Las Vegas when Levi Presley died, five others died from two types of cancer, four from heart attacks, three because of strokes. It was a day of to suicides by gunshot, as well as a suicide from hanging.” I like the effect of those numbers counting down. JIM. But it’s wrong. JOHN. I need the countdown. 35JIM. At the expense of credibility. JOHN. ‘this is credible. JIM. Not to the people who know the difference between four and eight. JOHN. It ties in to the other important countdown in the essay, those seconds ticking by when Levi falls from the tower: nine, cight, seven, six— JIM. Yes. Yes. Got it. JOHN. You want eight, I want four. It’s gonna be four. JIM. Pll make a note to Emily, Let her decide. Jim makes a note. ‘The next problem. That final death, “a suicide from hanging” JOHN. What's your problem? JIM. It was not by hanging—it was a girl, her name was Lorenza Ortiz, and she jumped off a building, too. JOHN. I want Levi's death to be the only one from jumping that day. JIM. You “want”? Okay, look... 1 don’t want to trivialize [your work)— JOHN. —that'’s all you've done is trivialize. Next. JIM. You say Levi jumped from the tower of the Stratosphere hotel at six-oh-one and forty-three seconds p.m. and hit the ground at six-oh-one and fifty-two seconds P.M. But the coroner's report says six-oh-one and fifty-one seconds. JOHN. Yes? JIM. So you say he fell for nine seconds. He only fell for eight. JOHN. And? JIM. Let’s change it. JOHN. Nota chance. JIM. It’s in the coroner's report you provided, It’s a little error. Why can't you address the error? JOHN, It’s not an error. JIM. It’s on purpose? JOHN, I wasn't the only one who thought his fall took nine seconds, 36His parents did, too—in fact, that's where I got the number. JIM. But it’s wrong. JOHN. I need him to fall for nine seconds to make some of the other themes work. JIM. You need. You want. JOHN, I left everyone's perception in there. His parents and I talk- ed about those nine seconds with Levi's Taekwondo coach, There are nine sections to the essay. One whole section talks about the mythic and religious significations of the number nine. It’s integral. JIM. Changing a detail about a Tabasco bottle is one thing but it seems unethical to— JOHN. You are talking about one second versus an entire worldview, a mood, a tone of— JIM. Okay forget it. I’m just going to make a note. JOHN. Knock yourself out. Pause. Look. It needs to have a certain style, It needs to have my rhythm of my experience. That's the only way it will work. JIM, Next. “An accident caused a traffic jam on the north end of the Strip—” JOHN. What the hell is wrong with that? It was a bad accident. JIM. No mention of this accident in the local papers and blogs. Do you have a source? JOHN. A woman at the Aztec Inn who said she saw Levi fall. JIM. Woman? What woman? JOHN. ‘There was a woman. She told me about the traffic jam. JIM. Do you have notes from that interview? Do you have her name? JOHN. [wrote down “homeless lady”— JIM. Ah, she was homeless. JOHN. —and “traffic accident.” This wasn't a formal interview— JIM. That's a problem. JOHN. If itis, then it’s your problem, not mine. JIM. It violates about ten different rules of journalistic integrity. 37JOHN. “About” ten, Jim? What happened to accuracy? Or did “ten” just work well for the effect you wanted to achieve? JIM. Okay. JOHN, Whai else? JIM. Epistemological problem: You say there were over a hundred tourists in five dozen cars. JOHN. “Epistemological problem”? JIM. Do you know what that means? JOHN. Ihave degrees in Latin and Greek; ] know what it means. Do you know what it means? JIM. | know what it means! JOHN. And what de you think you mean by it? JIM. Here's what I mean. You claim it's a traffic jam. And you claim that there were five dozen cars and one hundred people there. How can you know this? Was someone there counting? To say nothing of your claim that this was in fact a jam, because Jet's be clear: This was no jam, But let’s assume that this was a jam because you say it's a jam. You say it’s a jam so I think it’s a jam. Right here: where Baltimore Avenue comes in from the west and dead-ends at T.as Vegas Boule- vard. You said so, plus (Digs through his materials and pulls out a map of Las Vegas, i.a., the sort youd buy at a gas station.) | confirmed itona map. He then pulls a folded-up sheet of cardboard or heavy drawing paper from the bottom of his pile. He unfolds it, revealing a large (perhaps 1’x 2’), hand-drawn diagram of the intersection in question. John has no words, And yes, Vegas Boulevard has six lanes and Baltimore has four; five dozen cars means sixty cars. How do J know this? | did math! (Points at the diagram.) Sixty cars divided by ten lanes on each side means about three cars in cach lanc. Maybe four if we stretch it. Go ahead! Stretch it! I wouldn't call that a jam but again I'm going to bend over backwards and entrust my entire worldview to the deep poetic truth you're in contact with that two cars in front of me somehow constitutes a jam! And a hundred people sure sounds like a shit ton, but when you divide it over a total of twenty lanes of traffic— 38five whole people in each lane, Even assuming all single-occupancy vehicles—no cab passengers, no spouses, no children, no passengers of any kind, and everyone’ driving some kind of Cadillac super- vehicle, that is no jam, my friend. No jam at all. No honking. No idling. No jam! Wow. Not too jammy. So, Inowing everything that we now know about modern civil engineering and traffic patterns, how on Earth can you claim that this is any kind of jam?! JOHN. The woman at the Aztec Inn said that there were about five dozen cars. JIM. ‘Thank you. ‘Thank you so very much for that impeccable sourcing. Seriously. JOHN. When did you draw that chart? JIM. Now, those DOZENS of people. You claim they were bumping and idling and yelling at the base of the Stratosphere tower. Beat. What do you mean “at the base”? JOHN. What do I mean “at the base”?! JIM. ‘The intersection— JOHN. WHAT DOI MEAN AT SHE BASE?! There’ a knocking at the door. John approaches Jim menacingly. JIM. —that intersection is fifty feet from the base, you should say, “near the base”! JOHN. WHAT DO I MEAN “AT THE BASE”?! Jolin lunges at Jim, his hands going toward Jim’s neck. jim stumbles backward against the table, his hands going up to grab John’s. The traffic diagram goes flying to the floor. The front door bursts open. EMILY. Take your hands off his neck right goddamn now! John retreats rapidly across the room, shaken himself. JOHN. Just kidding around. JIM. He wasn’t kidding around. EMILY. You are not kidding around! Jesus, John! JOHN. Hey, hey, it’s cool. It’s cool. 39EMILY. It is not cool. (To Jim.) Are you okay? JOHN. So, we started the meeting. JIM. How was your flight? EMILY. Are you okay? JIM. Yeah. Yeah, I think I'm okay. EMILY. Are you sure? JIM. I think so. JOHN, Youre fine. JIM. I'm fine. EMILY. (To John.) Go outside. JOHN. ‘This is my house. Look from Emily that would kill the sun. And J am going outside because I choose to go outside. But I will return and when I do— He exits, closing the door behind him. A moment later he reenters, pulling Emily’s wheeled suitcase after him. He parks it next to the sofa, looks at Emily and makes a “there you go” gesture, then exits again, EMILY. Take a breath, JIM. I just want to say I'm right. EMILY. Take a breath first, JIM. Okay. EMILY. One hundred and thirty pages. She sees his backpack, his materials piled on the table. Plus whatever that holy hell is. JIM. That’s— EMILY. “You could only see twelve percent of the moon that night, so the moon was not half full” Who the hell is going to check a moon chart? JIM. I did. I don’t have a codebook that tells me what matters and what doesn't. EMILY. There is no codebook, it’s called judgment. 40She sees the traffic diagram on the floor, What the hell is that?! JIM. Traffic diagram. EMILY. ‘Traffic?! What traffic?! JIM. You know the second sentence? She restrains her anxiety/anger. EMILY. I can see you're a very dedicated person, Who thinks he has something to prove. JIM. I do have something to prove. I want to do a good job. I want my work to be noticed. EMILY. 1 am noticing you. Jesus, this is our prestige article— JIM. Essay— EMILY. ESSAY! It was supposed to be a quick fact check! Confirm a few dates, interact with a respected author, make sure the names are spelled correctly. (Re: his mountain of materials.) Except you actually did it. You checked the facts. Every. Single. One of them, All we had to do was to be seen to make a good-faith effort. JIM. You are describing negligence. EMILY. Not on a deadline I'm not. Not when the picce is this good, Not when you want that one great—We need to draw a line. Get a handle on this. (Not calm.) Can you stay calm?! JIM, You mean keep my neck away from his hands? EMILY. Give mea number. JIM, A number? EMILY. How much of this is true? Sixty percent? Ninety percent? JIM. What do you mean? EMILY. Give me a number. JIM. I can't put a number on— EMILY. You're the computer guy. I need a metric. JIM, I don’t know, Eighty? EMILY. Eighty, JIM. Maybe eighty-two? EMILY, Really. Eighty-two. 4]JIM. I think, EMILY, Okay, here’s what we do. We get eighty to ninety. We diagnose what's wrong, what's credible, what's accurate. Then we're off by ten percent, and when people notice only half those, J issue a correction on that five percent. Right? He has no idea how to answer. Go to another room while I calm down Norman Mailer. JIM. You've worked with him before— EMILY. —so what?— JIM. —so I mean, is he, well—unstable? EMILY. Like will he fly cross-country to invade someone's home? Go! JIM. Where?! EMILY. Kitchen! And close the door! Jim points at the kitchenette, JIM. ‘That is the kitchen, She points at the door across the stage from the front door. EMILY. There! Jim strides determinedly to the door and throws it open. JIM. That is a three-season porch stuffed with old lady furniture. He closes the porch door. Emily looks over at the stairs. EMILY. ‘Then upstairs! Jim, come on, make things happen! He strides to the stairs, climbs a few steps, looks up, offstage, at the top of the stairs; his eyes widen, JIM. (Abruptly stopping.) There's a baby gate. EMILY. Step over it! JIM. (Staring up at it, creeped out. It’s hard to disobey, but—) No... Emily points under the stairs. EMILY. ‘Then go in the basement! He descends, looks at the door under the staircase, then at her. Her face is set. He strides to it, throws it open, and pulls a chain to turn on an overhead lightbulb. JIM. Oh. This— 42