FADE IN: INT. MARCUS AND TERESA'S KITCHEN, LEIMERT PARK, LOS ANGELES, 6:14 AM Morning light through the window above the sink. The kind of light that arrives before the city does, soft and provisional, touching the countertop, the ceramic salt shaker, the folded dish towel. MARCUS COLE (34) sits at a small kitchen table in a City of Los Angeles Department of Public Works uniform. He is lean, close cropped hair, hands that are permanently calloused at the base of the fingers. He eats cereal and scrolls his phone. He pauses on something. Looks at it for three seconds. Puts the phone face down on the table. TERESA COLE (31) stands at the counter in scrubs from the physical therapy clinic where she runs the scheduling desk. She is organizing lunch containers with the precision of someone who believes that if the small things are in order the large things will follow. Dark hair pulled back. Quick hands. She noticed the phone go face down. The observation registers and is filed away. A small television on the counter is on, muted. A morning news anchor mouths words to no one. Through the back door window, a porch light flickers. Once. Twice. Holds. Marcus sees it. He pulls a small notepad from beside his keys and writes: porch light. Teresa watches him write it. She almost says something. Instead she hums. A melody with no particular origin. The sound of a woman filling silence she has decided not to question. TERESA