Narrator/Script Reader

Present day.

Dana, impeccably dressed, expertly made up, hair in a tight bun, drives down a crowded city street.

Wiper blades thump away rain from her windshield.

Turns into a parking garage, deftly parks in her spot.

Exits the car, a chirp of the alarm, her heels click on the cement, her actions smooth and controlled.

Interior office of the district attorney, day.

Dana enters from the street, drops a white umbrella and a stand by the door, heads down the hall.

Interior Dana's office, day.

Dana opens the door, which reads, Dana Jeffries, assistant district attorney, homicide.

hangs her purse on a coat rack in the corner, takes a seat at her desk, grabs mail from her inbox, sifts through the mail, gets to a baby blue envelope, stops, stares at it, runs her finger over the handwriting on the front, contemplates the letter opener on her desk.

Her desk phone rings, startles her.

She opens a bottom desk drawer, throws the envelope on top of several other envelopes in the same color with the same handwriting, reaches for the phone.

Exterior Ada's backyard, night.

Ada, elderly, close to 90, but trim and well put together, stands on the lawn in the dark, illuminated by a small shaft of light from a bulb above the sliding glass door to the house.

She holds a yellow balloon gently to her chest.

There is the rumble of thunder in the distance.

She closes her eyes and opens her arms, lets the balloon float up into the night sky.

Opens her eyes and looks up.

Watches the balloon disappear.

Then turns and goes inside.