FADE IN: INT. CHEN HOUSE, MASTER BATHROOM, DAWN The bathroom is white and new and lit by the specific blue gray of a Colorado winter dawn coming through a frosted window. The tiles are cold. The air is dry. Static clings to every surface the way it does in Denver in December, when the humidity drops to fifteen percent and touching a doorknob produces a visible spark. LAURA CHEN (34) stands at the sink. She is in a t shirt and sleep pants. Her dark hair is tangled. Her eyes are puffy from sleep or from not enough of it. She is Chinese American, petite, with the clean nails and quick hands of a woman who works in healthcare. She is looking at her hands. There is blood on them. Not a lot. A smear across the left palm. A streak on the right thumb. It is dry, crusted, the color of old rust. She does not know where it came from. She does not remember cutting herself. She does not remember touching anything that would bleed. She turns on the faucet. The water hits the porcelain and the sound is the loudest thing in the house. She scrubs. She uses soap. She scrubs the webbing between her fingers, under her nails, the creases of her knuckles. She scrubs the way a nurse scrubs: methodically, comprehensively, with the specific attention of a person trained to remove biological material from skin.