[OLD FAMILY KITCHEN – NIGHT]
A man in his mid-50s — CRAIG — stands in the kitchen of the house he grew up in.
The walls are yellowed, the clock stopped at 7:12. Boxes half-packed.
Tomorrow the realtor comes.

He pauses at the rotary phone still mounted on the wall.
Beige plastic. Coiled cord long enough to cross the whole room.
On impulse, he lifts the receiver.
The faint hum of a dial tone.
He dials, without knowing why.

A click —
a woman’s voice, warm and unmistakable.

MOM (Voice-Over, on phone):
Well, you finally called.
I was beginning to think you forgot my number.
(laughs)

Craig closes his eyes. A smile finds its way back. He eases into the chair by the small table in the kitchen.

CRAIG (laughs softly):
Guess I still know how to find you.

MOM (V.O.):
You sound tired, honey. Working too much again?

CRAIG:
No more than usual… Just thinking of you.

MOM (V.O.):
I was just thinking of you too.
Did you ever repaint the old kitchen like you said?

CRAIG:
Not yet. I’m here now. The walls are still butter yellow.
(laughs)
They don’t even make that color anymore.

MOM (V.O.):
Good. I picked that shade on purpose — it hides the dust.

They both laugh, the sound comfortable, domestic.
He looks at the counter — still nicked where she cut bread.

CRAIG:
Remember Christmas Eve, when I burned the rolls — three times?

They share another laugh, softer this time.
They talk about recipes, her garden, Christmas lights—
the rhythm of two people who know each other by heart.

MOM (V.O.):
It’s been a while since long-distance meant … this far.

A slow electronic beep begins … beep … beep … beep.

MOM (V.O.):
Oh dear — already?
They’re telling me I’m out of minutes, Honey.

CRAIG (chokes up):
Please don’t go.

MOM (V.O.):
Oh, I’m not going, honey…
You are.

Craig freezes…. The light in the kitchen trembles.

CRAIG (whispers):
Wait … Mom … you’re dead.

The receiver slips from his hand, clattering against the linoleum.
He turns — relatives stand in the doorway, faces pale.
They’ve been watching him talk to nobody for 15 minutes now.
Or maybe to someone.

Through the window, distant silhouettes gossip in the snowy glow.
One mouth forms the words: “You’re dead.”

[CUT TO – BEDROOM]
Craig jolts awake, gasping. The phone is gone.
Just the hum of a furnace.

MOM (Off-Screen):
Craig? Craig, honey — you okay?

He looks toward the open door.
A soft halo of hallway light. Her shadow. Her voice.

He exhales — half laugh, half sob.

JESUS (Voice-Over, gentle):
Some lines, son … are never really disconnected.

[CLANCY’S BASEMENT AIRBNB – NIGHT]

CLANCY CEE in his Airbnb…. reveals that he opted to stay in a newly-renovated basement for his first stay. Didn’t feel he deserved more, even with his expenses paid.

Cinder-block walls. A portable thermostat flashes 62° and falling. Clancy types to the Writers Room group chat on his laptop, wrapped in a flannel blanket. 

CLANCY (texting):
This $15 space heater from Amazon is DOA.
Just my luck. I’m freezing.
Holding it in my hands — nothing.
Two outlets, still nothing.
Tiny cord. Sack delivery. Gotta be a dud.
Might drive back over to Walmart tonight.

He sets the heater on the counter and sighs.
A soft click… whirrr.

CLANCY (texting again):
Wait. I set it down. Quiet hum.
Working now.
Delayed-gratification gag.
Jesus is laughing.

Cut to: Writers Room, where everyone’s reading his messages on the shared monitor.

RICKLES:
The guy’s treating a space heater like a stethoscope.
Of course it won’t hum in your hands.

KAT:
INFJs don’t just want heat, Rickles — they want proof of life.

LORENZO (defending his new friend):
Shouldn’t that be listed under “Troubleshooting”?
Not even a red light comes on? Really? How cheap is that?

EKO:
Corporate America sells him silence in a sack, then blames him for holding it wrong.
Checks out.

RICKLES (slaps table):
Heater didn’t need fixin’.
Clancy did.

[AIRBNB BASEMENT – LATER THAT NIGHT]

Thermostat now reads 70°. Clancy’s cheerful again, typing a follow-up.

CLANCY (texting):
Tried to shut off the heater — switch snapped like a potato chip.
Tripped the breaker, too.
My Airbnb host is trying to reach me.
Just ordered a $10 replacement on Amazon.
I may be warm by Easter.

[BACK TO WRITERS ROOM]

LUNDY:
He dares trust a $10 heater after betrayal by a $15 heater?
That’s a gambler’s paradox.

CASEY:
The ten-buck model will sit there like a loaded gun.
Place your bets, people — over or under one week?

LUNDY:
Does spontaneous combustion count as a win?

* * * * * 

[WALMART – EVENING]
The Writers Room having convinced Clancy Cee to purchase a better-quality space heater this time for his temporary Airbnb, Clancy drives to a distant Walmart — at night — and moves through fluorescent purgatory.

NARRATOR/RICKLES (Voice-Over):
A stage play of three women and one receipt cop — one ignored him, one smiled without product knowledge, one learned to spell “space heater.”

Clancy approaches the first employee, second trip to Walmart for a space heater.

CLANCY:
Do you have space—

Already in mid-argument with herself, STORMCLOUD LADY speed-walks past.

STORMCLOUD LADY:
… this damn place. I swear to God.

CLANCY (calling after):
Umm, I have a question—

STORMCLOUD LADY (finally stops, spins around, 60 feet away, angry):
Well … what’s your question?!

CLANCY (V-O):
Good grief! Old Man Boomer picked the wrong woman to approach. 
Pick the next smile, Clancy.

Five minutes later — SMILE GIRL beaming.

CLANCY:
You just fixed twenty-percent of my day.

No app. No clue to where anything is.

CLANCY (gentle):
Totally fine. Thanks for the smile.

Another aisle. APP LADY with a scanner literally in her hands, but didn’t know “space heater.”

CLANCY (gentle, but quickly):
Do you have space heaters?

Two other people also approach her, but surprisingly back away —
noticing Clancy was first in line.

APP LADY:
Uhh -- I don’t know.

CLANCY (points to App in her right hand):
Isn’t that an App?

APP LADY:
Oh, yeah…
What are you lookin’ for again?

CLANCY:
Space heaters?

She stares, blank.
He repeats.
Enunciates.
He spells it: s-p-a-c-e … h-e-a-t-e-r.
No mockery, just irony.
She types it into the App.
Clancy is 95% convinced she spelled it incorrectly.

CLANCY (kindly):
Okay, thank you.

He pushes on.

JESUS (soft):
You’re giving people dignity — even when they don’t know how to help.

Clancy smiles, resigned.
His second trek to Walmart, and he will again leave heater-less — 
but with a few groceries for his Airbnb, and a 12-pack of Dr. Pepper.
Self-checkout complete, he rolls toward the exit.

RECEIPT GUY:
Sir — receipt?

CLANCY (V-O):
This dude thinks I’m Shawshank-ing out with a bag of diamonds.

He keeps walking — slow enough to be caught.

RECEIPT GUY (hustling):
Sir! Sir! Stop!!

CLANCY (pulls over like a traffic stop):
Officer, I surrender.

The man checks the receipt, hands it back.
Clancy crumples it slowly, drops it into the bag like a spent ticket.

JESUS (chuckling):
Son, you played that whole act for an audience of One.
No harm done.
(pause)
It’s the Dr. Pepper.

CLANCY (nods):
Ahh, so anything not in a bag looks like the great Walmart Heist?
Makes sense.

Automatic doors whoosh closed behind him. The lot glows bluish under the sodium lamps. Clancy pushes his cart toward the car.

CLANCY (V-O):
The world really is a stage play — three women, one receipt cop, and me still looking for warmth.

He loads the trunk, straightens up, exhales a laugh.

CLANCY (to the cold air, half-grin):
Every word of that story’s true.
Even the bit about the App Lady.

JESUS (softly, from the passenger seat):
It’s always the part you thought was a throw-away.

Clancy shakes his head, still smiling, starts the car. The heater fan sputters to life.

CLANCY:
I guess I’m getting good at being the narrator of my own absurdities.

JESUS (softly):
Maybe that’s why the Writers Room wants to hire you, son.

Clancy chuckles, puts the car in gear, and pulls out into the night.
Supertramp’s “From Now On” hums faintly from the dashboard radio.

JESUS (from the monitor, fading but audible):
Every worker you approached gave you exactly one piece of the puzzle.
Stormcloud gave you the lesson.
Smiler gave you the kindness.
Speller gave you the comedy.
And the receipt cop? He gave you the mirror.

[FADE OUT]

[OLD HOUSE – DAY, WINTER LIGHT]
Faded wallpaper, hum of the refrigerator, snow falling outside. CRAIG is talking on the telephone in the kitchen, on a beige rotary-dial phone. 
Front door bursts open — Craig’s mother is back in her early-40s, alive and laughing, arms full of shopping bags. Dad follows behind, grumbling playfully about the cost.

MOM:
Craig! You wouldn’t believe the sales I found on Christmas gifts!
Don’t look!!

She drops the bags, runs over, wraps him in a hug that’s so real he can feel her heartbeat.
He closes his eyes. The sound of wrapping paper.
Bing Crosby on the radio.

MOM:
You were always my Christmas kid.

He holds her tighter —
but her voice starts to echo, dissolve, distort.

MOM (fading):
Wake up, honey…

[SMASH CUT – BEDROOM – PRESENT DAY]
Craig jolts upright. His breath fogs in the cold. The house looks the same — but everything’s dim, dusty, quiet.

He stumbles to the door — opens it — and sees her again in the hallway light, older, exactly as she was when she passed.

MOM:
Were you dreaming, Craig?

CRAIG:
Yeah…
(beat)
I think so.

MOM:
That’s okay. I still shop. You still dream.

She smiles, fades into the light. He stands there, trembling, smiling back.

JESUS (V.O.):
Sometimes heaven borrows your old house.
Just long enough to remind you who built it.

[END OF EPISODE 2]

[WRITERS ROOM]
The closing credits flicker off the office monitor. Everyone’s still chuckling; the screen freezes on Clancy driving out of the parking lot. Steam curls from half-empty coffee cups.

RICKLES:
That gal had the App right in her hand—magic wand of knowledge—and still whiffed.

LUNDY:
Yeah, “space heater” landed like he was speaking Martian.

LORENZO:
I give Clancy credit for spelling it out s-l-o-w-l-y. 
That’s patience on the level of sainthood.

CASEY:
He didn’t spell it to humiliate — he spelled it to bridge the gap.

KAT:
Exactly. INFJs do that automatically.
Protect people from shame in one breath—App Lady—
but won’t tolerate being dismissed in the next—Stormcloud Lady.
That’s why we look “soft” then “sharp.”
It’s the same engine: fierce empathy switching gears.

LUNDY:
And that receipt cop?
Dude acted like Clancy was making a prison break with a cart full of contraband.

LORENZO:
Yeah, I don’t blame him for crinkling the receipt like that.
That was performance art—his way of saying: 
“Don’t you dare question my honesty. I’d rather burn proof than beg for it.”
From now on, I’m hitting “No Receipt” at self-checkout, on principle.

RICKLES (to Lorenzo):
Yeah, try that sometime, Champ.
You’ve got the exact face that pings every greeter’s radar—
“Better check that dude, he looks way too relaxed about life.”

LUNDY:
They might frisk you between the mints and the beef jerky.

CASEY:
So… moral of the mythos?

JESUS (voice still faint):
Even when the world forgets how to help, keep giving it the chance.
That’s how warmth finds its way back.