FADE IN: EXT. TWO LANE ROAD, APPALACHIAN FOREST, DAY Late October. Old growth forest presses against both shoulders of a road that was two lanes a mile ago and is now barely one and a half. The canopy is amber and rust and the light comes through in broken columns that shift with the wind. The trees are close enough to scratch paint. A silver sedan moves through the corridor of color at a speed that suggests the driver has somewhere to be and the road disagrees. The window is cracked two inches. Woodsmoke enters the car before any building is visible, a smell that belongs to a place that has not appeared yet. Inside the car, NORA CALLOWAY (34) drives with both hands on the wheel. She is lean, precise in her movements, dressed in a canvas jacket and jeans that read city practical rather than mountain practical. Her hair is pulled back and her face carries the particular tension of a woman who has been clenching her jaw for three hundred miles without noticing.