FADE IN: EXT. COMFORT INN, NORTHAMPTON, MASSACHUSETTS, 6:47 AM September morning. Flat, clear light. The kind that makes everything look like it has been recently washed. A parking lot. Three vehicles: a silver minivan, a red rental sedan, and a 2009 Subaru Outback in a green that has faded almost to the color of sage. The Subaru is packed with the specific logic of someone who has packed it alone every year for seventeen years. ELI MARSH (12) sits in the passenger seat of the Subaru with a paperback open on his knee and a granola bar half eaten on the dashboard. He is slight, dark-haired, with the careful posture of a child who has been praised for being quiet. His eyes drift toward the parking lot, then back to the book. He is not reading. RUTH MARSH (68) comes around the rear of the car with two bottles of water and a paper bag from the motel lobby. She is upright and deliberate in her movements, sharp featured, her white hair clipped short and unadorned. She wears a green cardigan over a white blouse, pressed slacks, low shoes suitable for walking. She has the bearing of someone who spent thirty years standing in front of rooms full of people and never once doubted she belonged there. She opens the rear door and places the bag with the same exactness she places everything. She closes the door, opens the front door, and gets in. She adjusts the mirror. RUTH1