Disclaimers: "Now and Again" and its characters belong to Glenn Gordon Caron, Picturemaker Productions, and CBS. New characters belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended. I'm just paying homage.

Author's Note: This is done in script style, but because it's a text file it looks different. The sentences in *s, ( ), and [ ] are all actions.


INT. EARLY EVENING. *A dark room with scientific equipment. A rainstorm rages outside, complete with thunder and lightening. The sound of typing is heard in the background. The only light comes from a computer screen and the occasional blast of lightening that illuminates the room for a split second from the well windows. A young man, MILES, in his mid- twenties, wearing jeans, T-shirt, flannel shirt, glasses, is working feverishly over the keyboard, continually typing at a furious pace and checking his notes every now and again. The expression on his face is determined, bright, highly energetic. He begins to type faster, and his mouth opens wide as he attempts to take in enough air to contain his excitement.*

MILES (to himself)
I don't believe this. I-I can't...

*He stops typing and leans away from the computer, stunned. He strokes his face in amazement.*

Oh, my God. (a pause as he continues to stare at the screen)
I've done it. I've actually done it.

*He grabs the phone and hits speed-dial. A beat*:
Yeah, this is Miles. I need to talk to him right away.

INT. SAME NIGHT. WISEMAN KITCHEN. *LISA and HEATHER WISEMAN, seated at the kitchen table, are laughing while their dinner plates now lay empty. This is a real mother-daughter moment, and not of the sappy variety.*

And your father just stood there the entire time, knee deep, as the water kept rising higher and higher from the burst pipe, watching you in your little bathing suit wading around down there. You used to be so cute.

*Heather giggles, remembering, but quite quickly her face turns extremely grave. Lisa notices right away.*

Honey? What's wrong?

HEATHER (slowly, ashamed, her gaze down)
I-I can't remember.

You were, I don't know, six years old. It was a long time ago.

No. It's not that. I can't remember what color his eyes...were.

*Her last words crush her. It's totally hitting her now. Her eyes gradually fill up.*

I'm sorry. Mom, I'm...

*Lisa gets up from her chair, throws her napkin on her plate, and kneels next to Heather's seat. She holds Heather's hands in her own. She knows her daughter is hurting, displaying this level of emotion. She hesitates for a moment.*

They're blue, Heather. They were blue.

*She takes her daughter into her arms as Heather falls apart.*

I know sweetheart. It's...[unable to finish] I know. But just think. I'm sure that wherever your dad is right now, he's happy.

INT. SAME NIGHT. ABANDONED, BURNED OUT APARTMENT BUILDING. *With a pained expression plastered on his face and completely drenched, MICHAEL WISEMAN, hero extraordinaire, runs up a dilapidated stairwell, which looks as if it could fall apart at any moment, at his Michael Jordan speed. He is chasing an ARMED MAN, who is a few flights above him. The lightening continues to roar.*

MICHAEL (into his hidden microphone)
Doc? This guy is getting away from me.

You've only been chasing him for 1/2 a mile, Mr. Wiseman. I have every confidence in the world that you will come out victorious. The authorities should be here at any moment.

MICHAEL (still running up the stairs)
Well, that's a relief. I'm not quite sure how much more rained on I could possibly get. There was a minute back there I thought I was melt-

*He stops short at a distressing sound and turns around.*

EXT. STREET. DR. MORRIS, under his umbrella, stands in front of the limo, talking into his microphone.

DR. MORRIS (cupping his hand to his ear)
Mr. Wiseman? Is everything all right?

INT. STAIRWELL. *CLOSEUP on Michael, losing his balance, as the wood below him collapses.*

Doc? [as he falls] DO-OC?

*A crashing thud is heard, followed by:*