Sunlight comes through the soot on the windows, more brown than
     bright.  SOMERSET, 45, stands in one corner of this small,
     second-story room.  He looks over the ceiling, looks down at the
     worn wooden floors, looks at the peeling wallpaper.

     He walks to the center of the room, continues his study, taking
     his time.  He halts, turns to one wall where the current
     wallpaper is torn away to reveal flowery wallpaper underneath.

     Somerset goes to this wall and runs his finger across one of the
     pale, red roses which decorates the older paper.  He pushes the
     grime away, brings the rose out more clearly.

     He reaches into his suit pocket and takes out a switchblade.  He
     flips the thin, lethal blade free.  Working deliberately,
     delicately, Somerset cuts a square around the rose, then peels
     the square of dry wallpaper away from the wall.  He studies it in
     his hand.

     EXT.  OLD HOUSE -- DAY

     Somerset stands in front of the old home.  He looks out at the
     surrounding farms and forests.  He ponders something.  Birds
     sing.

                                  MAN (O.S.)
                   Is something wrong?

     Somerset does not respond, just stares off.  The MAN, 34, wears a
     real-estate broker's jacket and stands beside a FOR SALE sign in
     the muddy lawn.

                                  MAN
                   Is there something the matter?

     Somerset turns to face the man, then looks back at the house.

                                  SOMERSET
                   No.  No... it's just that everything here
                   seems... so strange.

                                  MAN
                   Strange?  There's nothing strange about
                   this place.  The house'll need a little
                   fixing up, that's for sure...

                                  SOMERSET
                   No.  I like the house, and this place.

                                  MAN
                   I was about to say.  Cause this place is
                   about as normal as places get.

     Somerset nods, taking a deep breath.  He smiles.

                                  SOMERSET
                   That's what I mean.  Strange.

     Somerset looks back to the beautiful landscape.  The man does not
     understand.

     INT.  AMTRACK TRAIN -- LATER DAY

     Somerset is in the window seat, looking out the window of the
     speeding train, smoking a cigarette.  He is near the back of the
     car, away from the few other passengers.

     Outside, farms, fields, small homes and lawns rush by.  The
     panorama is dappled by the rays of the soon to be setting sun.

     INT.  AMTRACK TRAIN -- LATER DAY

     The train is almost full, moving slower.  Somerset has his
     suitcase on the aisle seat beside him.  He holds a hardcover book
     unopened on his lap.  He still stares out the window, but his
     face is tense.  The train is passing an ugly, swampy field.  The
     sun has gone under.

     Though it seems impossible it ever could have gotten there, a
     car's burnt-out skeleton sits rusting in the bracken.

     Ahead, the city waits.  The sky is full of smokestacks and huge
     industrial cranes.

     INT.  AMTRACK TRAIN -- LATER DAY

     The train is passing urban streets below.  Slums and smashed
     cars.  People stand in groups in the corners.  Bleak.