FADE IN: INT. NORA'S BEDROOM, MORNING 7:12 AM. The clock on the nightstand is digital and exact. NORA CALLAHAN (12) stands at her window. She is already dressed. Jeans, sneakers, a gray shirt with a small planet on it that she has owned for three years and will own for three more. Her hair is pulled back with the deliberateness of someone who made a decision and moved on. Through the window: a two-car garage. The door is closed. Her father's car is in there. She has not opened the garage in eleven weeks. She does not look at the clock. She does not look at the desk where her drawing pencils sit in a ceramic cup, exactly where she put them on a Tuesday in May and has not touched since. She looks at the garage. Then she turns and goes downstairs. The room behind her is made. The bed: tight corners, pillow centered. Everything in its place. The kind of room that is not the work of a twelve-year-old but of a person who has decided that one thing, at least, will be exactly right. INT. NORA'S HOUSE, KITCHEN, MORNING PATRICIA CALLAHAN (42) is at the kitchen table with her coffee and her phone. She has the posture of a woman who sat down two minutes ago after being up for an hour. The television is on, low: a morning program with a person speaking about weather in a state neither of them is in. 1