INT. THE DINING ROOM AT RICH’S HOUSE — EVENING

RICH, who was most recently RJ’s best friend, and who now finds himself somewhat friendless, sits at a wooden dining table in a small kitchen. Rich’s mother, DONNA, sits across from him.

Everything in the kitchen is old — the plastic floor, made to look like tile, has been trying to peel itself off the floorboards since the nineties; the oven is a gas-powered grizzly and greasy thing that only gets hot, not some specified temperature; and because they have no dishwasher, used dishes, some caked with sauce from an old meal, sit stacked in the kitchen sink.

The dining table is just as old, but out of everything in the kitchen, you can tell it has been cared for the most. Maybe it was a wedding gift, or maybe it belonged to a grandmother that never made it to Hereafter. Either way, the table feels symbolic of something intangible that ties Rich and his family to their unbecoming house and, by extension, to the unbecoming entirety of Mitchell. If you look closely, you can see the faces of Rich and his mother reflected in the polished wood.

Rich’s Dad, BRENT, is in the living room, looking for something and making a lot of noise. It sounds like he might be tearing a closet apart or busting down a wall.

DONNA

(running the nail of her

index finger nervously

around the ring of her glass

of sweet tea and looking

away from Rich to

watch the ice melt)

I don’t think you should feel guilty if it helps.

The plate sitting in front of Rich is empty, and he taps a fork across the edge of it like a see-saw. The fork makes a clinking noise. Rich looks towards the other room as if he expects his father, or maybe a ghost, to appear.

And a ghost does appear. RJ condenses into being and stands there in the empty doorway. His being flickers. A person could easily believe that he is about to go out like a candle. RJ wraps his fingers tightly around his shotgun.

RICH

(looking through RJ)

I don’t feel guilty.

DONNA

All I’m saying is

that it’s ok if you do — someday, not now.

RICH

It doesn’t sound like him at all.

DONNA

You mean RJ…?

Rich tenses up, and his mother snaps her mouth shut. But it’s too late. Rich looks down at his phone, which is sitting on the table beside his plate, and frowns. The phone lights up with a familiar blue light, and the afterversion of RJ’s smiling face appears.

RJ (IN PHONE)

How’s it going?

The spirited RJ raises his spectral shotgun. He stares down the barrel and points the gun at the face floating so serenely in Rich’s phone. Or maybe he points his gun at Rich.

RICH

(to his phone)

We’re fine, RJ.

RJ (IN PHONE)

Cool —

I’ll be here in case you need me.

RJ

(gritting ghostly teeth

and wrapping a

finger around the

trigger of his shotgun)

I’ve only got two shots…

Rich spins in his chair when his father walks into the room after finding what he was looking for. When Brent walks through the phantasm that RJ has willed into being, the ghost disappears. Whatever it was made of makes Brent cough.

BRENT

(between coughing fits)

I knew I kept this. I found it in the closet.

DONNA

Are you alright?

BRENT

I’m fine — I’m fine.

Brent hands Rich a dusty trophy with a plasticky-golden basketball man shooting a jump shot on top of it.

BRENT

It’s from when

you and RJ won the two-man tourney

they used to put together before the parade

at the end of the festival.

Rich takes the trophy. He rubs the dust off it and looks at his distorted reflection in the little basketball the golden man is always shooting.

DONNA
(joking a bit to ease
the tension in the room)

The guys they put on top look stuck in time.

Rich puts the trophy down on the table. He laughs and carries his plate over to the kitchen sink.

RICH

(unknowingly looking at

the reflection of RJ’s ghost

in the window hanging

above the sink)

I always wondered what they were shooting at.