Chapter Text
TAPE #1 – THE SQUARE
Estimated Date: May 1989
Location: The Midwest Hills Square, North Yankton
Estimated Duration: 47 minutes (abrupt cuts)
Format: VHS-C (320x240, 29.97fps)
Tape Condition: Physical wear on the upper edge. Audio exhibits intermittent static.
[...]
[TAPE BEGINS]
[TIMECODE: 00:00:03]
The image doesn't start; it emerges, as if the lens itself is yawning. A deep, sickly blue fills the frame for three full seconds—the kind of blue only cheap 80s cameras produce while the sensor is still warming up. Then a dry click, and focus finds the world.
The square.
It occupies the frame like an open wound in the middle of the suburbs. The snow isn't white — it's gray, filthy, trampled by boots and tires. It covers half the basketball court in uneven layers, like forgotten blankets. The painted lines on the concrete are ghosts now; they only appear in twisted patches beneath the ice, where the gray afternoon light manages to penetrate. The nearest hoop has no net— the metal rim sways slightly with the wind, a small, melancholy movement the camera captures with lag.
The zoom whines. The internal motor sounds like a mechanical groan, almost a protest. The lens advances too slowly toward the playground.
The swings move by themselves. No children. Just the wind — a dry wind coming off the North Yankton plains, carrying the smell of old gasoline and frozen earth. The audio spikes when Brad breathes too close to the built-in microphone. His breathing is rough, wet, the sound of someone who just ran too fast.
The camera drifts toward the picnic tables. One of them has a chessboard half-buried in snow. All the pieces are black on one side, white on the other, as if a game was interrupted by an emergency.
Brad mutters, his voice muffled by the wind and the proximity of the mic:
— Four hundred bucks... And the picture still looks like a goddamn amateur horror flick.
The lens loses focus again. The world becomes a pasty blur for a second before readjusting.
[...]
[TIMECODE: 00:01:47]
Michael is sitting on a bench painted peeling green. His silhouette is solid against the overcast sky —broad shoulders, spine slightly curved forward, as if carrying an invisible weight. His blackish-gray hair looks almost blue under the reflected snowlight, short strands swaying across his forehead. He wears a worn leather jacket, collar up, hands shoved in his pockets.
Next to him, Lester sits with his cane resting against the bench. His gray coat is torn at the left sleeve, polyester stuffing escaping through a gash that looks like it was made by a knife. He holds a silver metal flask with both gloved hands — worn wool gloves, fingers cut off for mobility. His gold-rimmed glasses sit crooked on his face, and his cheeks have a sickly flush, whether from cold or alcohol.
Lester wrinkles his nose — that analytical tic that appears when he's processing something—and tilts his head toward the lens.
— The fuck you filming my face for?
Brad laughs behind the camera. The image trembles slightly.
— Testing it out, man. Relax.
Lester points a gloved finger at the snow.
— Test that. Test the goddamn snow. Don't keep filming my drunk face.
He laughs himself — a muffled, short sound that gets lost in the wind before it finishes. The flask rises to his lips, and he drinks like he's taking medicine.
The focus takes a moment to readjust. When it finds its mark, it's on Michael's face.
Even with the heavy grain and the blue palette, Michael is annoyingly photogenic. There's no other word for it. The cold afternoon light catches the angle of his jaw, the curve of his dimpled chin, the shadow of stubble spreading like charcoal dust across his pale skin. His nose is red from the cold. His blue eyes — shifting between ice and emerald depending on the light — are half-lidded, distant.
The wind pushes a strand of his hair against his temple. He brushes it away with a slow, almost lazy motion. Like someone who knows he's being watched.
Michael talks about something that happened days ago. His voice is low, a little rough from smoke, and he gestures with his free hand, the cigarette almost forgotten between his fingers.
"— they wouldn't stop pushing. You know how it is. 'C'mon, Michael, tell us.' And I didn't wanna talk about it, man. None of their goddamn business."
Lester makes a sound of agreement, but his eyes are fixed on some distant point.
Michael continues, his voice sharpening:
"— then Trevor shows up and starts spilling details. Details, Lester. Shit I told him off the record. And the fucker just lays it all out on the table like it's a joke."
He bites the filter. The burning tip trembles.
"— so now I'm the crazy one. When he's the one running with the wrong people. I saw it."
Lester grunts.
— And you're sure about that?
Michael turns his face toward him. There's a spark of irritation in his eyes.
— I saw it. Trevor wouldn't admit it, but I saw it.
He notices the lens.
The change is subtle, but the camera catches every millimeter. His back straightens on the bench. His chin lifts two centimeters. The hand holding the cigarette now does so with calculated elegance, long thick fingers gripping the filter with the precision of someone posing for a photograph.
Brad noticed.
Behind the camera, the blonde's voice comes out with a grin:
— See that? He turns into an actor the second he's on camera.
Michael turns his face toward the lens with a look of contempt that isn't entirely genuine.
— Go fuck yourself, Brad.
And then, he smiles.
It's a quick smile, a twitch at the corner of his mouth that barely reaches his eyes. But it's there.
[...]
[TIMECODE: 00:05:32]
Lester and Michael resume their conversation in low voices. The words are hard to make out through the wind, but the camera catches fragments:
"— that motherfucker..."
"— no, no, he was wrong, Lester..."
"— but you overreacted too, Michael..."
The zoom pulls in closer than it should. The image loses definition, dissolving into granular blobs. All that's visible is one blue eye, a red cheek, smoke drifting across the lens like a ghost curtain.
Lester laughs, a drunk, raspy sound.
— This looks like a European porn. Jeez.
Brad asks:
— You watch European porn?
Lester answers with deliberate slowness:
— No. Not voluntarily.
The camera pulls back, aimed at the sky. The wind howls into the microphone. A car passes on the avenue behind the square, its tires crunching old snow with a muffled sound, almost like static.
Brad pans the camera slowly. The images scroll past like a zoo of decay: bare trees, twisted branches like fingers; streetlights on too early, casting yellow halos; a trash can buried halfway, overflowing; lone footprints crossing virgin snow toward nowhere.
When the camera returns, Michael is no longer looking at the conversation. He's looking at the playground swing. At nothing.
Lester is complaining about something.
[...]
Trevor appears in the distance.
At first, it's just an orange blotch on the gray horizon. Then the figure takes shape — a silhouette moving with energy disproportionate to the frozen scene.
He comes up the sidewalk, a cardboard box balanced on his right shoulder. The dark blue sweater — velvety, too thin for the cold — has its sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing pale forearms and prominent veins. The black fingerless gloves leave his fingertips exposed, red and trembling. The orange beanie sits crooked, almost falling over one ear; the dark brown mullet escapes from underneath, tangled by the wind, the shaved sides contrasting with the length at the nape.
The cold breeze carries the sound of his footsteps: a dry, uneven beat, like he's in a hurry.
Brad leaves the camera on him too long. The zoom doesn't advance; it's a fixed frame, almost contemplative.
Michael notices first. His eyes shift — a minimal contraction, almost imperceptible — and his mouth opens before any sound comes out. He mutters:
— Aw, no fuckin' way...
Lester follows his gaze. His expression goes from disdain to irritation in less than a second. He clenches his fist around the flask and raises his arm like he's about to throw a spear.
— Two hours! Two goddamn hours to buy my vodka!
Brad swings the camera toward Lester. The image trembles with his stifled laugh.
Trevor arrives and drops the box on the ground — the impact is dull, cardboard scraping against ice. He rubs his bare hands together, blowing hot air onto his fingers.
Michael's voice comes from behind:
— You're making that face.
Trevor looks up. His eyes are large, brown, with an almost childlike quality that belies everything known about him. He frowns.
— What face?
Michael answers, voice dry:
— Face like a stray dog watching a rotisserie chicken.
Brad laughs behind the camera. The sound is loud, shrill, and the image shakes.
Trevor finally notices the lens. His expression shifts — not to anger, but to sudden shyness, almost embarrassment. He raises his middle finger toward the camera.
Lester comments, not looking at him:
— He already loves you...!
There's silence. Michael drags deep on his cigarette and exhales:
— Shut up, Lester.
But he doesn't take his eyes off Trevor. Not for a second.
[...]
[TIMECODE: 00:12:18]
Lester makes a dismissive wave, a "get lost" gesture toward Trevor.
— Sit over there. We don't need you listening to this.
Trevor rolls his eyes but obeys. He sits on the picnic table in front of the bench, crossing his arms over his chest. The fingerless gloves leave his wrists exposed— and in the gray light, the tiny smiley face tattooed on his left wrist looks almost like a blinking eye.
Michael returns to the subject. His voice is tenser now.
— They wanted to know everything, Lester. Even about that night.
Lester grunts.
— And you told them?
— No, fuck no. But Trevor opened his mouth.
Michael crushes the cigarette filter until the paper crumples.
— I told him: 'This stays between us.' And he just... told them. All the details. Then it looked like I was the paranoid one.
Lester laughs, a bitter sound.
— You are paranoid.
Michael stares at him with a hardness the camera captures perfectly.
— And you're drunk. Everyone's got their problems.
Lester leans forward, putting his weight on his cane.
— At least I don't confuse my best friend with a rival and start screaming that he's betraying me.
Michael falls silent. His jaw locks. He drags on the cigarette and looks away.
Brad, behind the camera, catches the exact moment Michael bites his lower lip. A quick gesture. A nervous tic.
Lester continues:
— And another thing, Trevor's not the only one who fucks up, Michael. You too.
Michael points a finger at the camera.
— You, Brad — you apologize already? — his voice has a sharp edge.
The camera wobbles as Brad shrugs.
— Yeah. I got nothing to do with this, man.
Michael huffs.
— I hate when you assholes spill details about shit I don't want out. Trevor spilled details about an argument we had, and it made me look bad, man.
Lester laughs — a drunk, genuine laugh.
— Relationship fight details. How cute.
Michael throws his cigarette to the ground, the red tip hissing in the wet snow.
— Go fuck yourself, Lester.
[...]
The camera focuses on Trevor.
He left the table and went to the children's swings. The toy is too small for him — his long legs stretch to the ground, dragging his feet in the snow to keep the motion going. The metal chains squeal with a sharp, rhythmic sound. The dark blue sweater is rumpled, the orange beanie almost falling off his head when he leans back.
Brad laughs to himself.
Panning the camera toward Lester, the blonde sees him laughing while looking at the camera. Lester's eyes are glazed, pupils dilated by alcohol.
Michael is distracted too.
The cigarette burns between his fingers, untouched. He's not smoking anymore. Just watching Trevor—the motion of the swing, the curve of his back, the feet dragging through the hardened snow.
The camera image trembles with the wind.
Lester says something inaudible. His voice comes out hoarse, deeper.
— He sounds like an eight-year-old.
Michael answers, automatic:
— He's retarded.
But there's a smile at the corner of his mouth. Small. Involuntary.
[...]
[TIMECODE: 00:18:05]
Brad zooms in.
Trevor finally stops the swing. His feet drag through the snow, scraping the surface layer until they hit the hard ice below. The metal groans low. He sits there for a few seconds, head down, fingerless gloves gripping the chains tight.
His breath forms vapor clouds.
He stands.
The camera follows him as he crosses back across the square. The image is unstable, grainy — but every step is sharp. The wide black pants with two white stripes down each leg are wet up to the knees. His sneakers are worn.
He approaches and plants his hands on his hips.
— The fuck are you assholes still talking about this shit for?
Lester calls him stupid.
Brad says behind the camera:
— Here we go...
He almost chokes laughing.
Trevor puts one hand on the bench, leaning forward, trying to hear. His face is too close to the lens — the huge brown eyes, the pale skin with small imperfections, the angular jaw.
Lester, completely drunk, squints behind his crooked glasses. He points a finger at Trevor.
— No. Listen here, you Canadian piece of shit...
He tries to grab Trevor by the arm. The movement is abrupt but uncoordinated — the kind of attempt that should knock the other off balance.
Trevor barely moves.
The most that happens is Lester nearly slipping off the bench. His ass slides on the wet wood, and both arms flail like windmill blades.
Brad lets out:
— Whoa! Fuck!
The camera shakes entirely with laughter. The image blurs for two seconds.
Trevor grabs Lester by the coat before he hits the snow. The movement is fast, instinctive—the kind of reflex that comes from years of survival. He laughs through his nose.
— Oh, get outta here... Not me, you're drunk, man.
Lester mutters:
— I'm gonna kill you, Trevor.
Trevor shrugs.
— Yeah, okay, old man. Keep me posted.
Lester points again.
— I'm gonna kill you.
Michael huffs. He pulls the cigarette from his mouth with irritation.
— Lester, you won't let me finish a goddamn sentence. — He throws his arm out. — You guys aren't acting like people. Give me five minutes, just five minutes, for you two to behave.
Lester still points a trembling finger at Trevor.
— Two hours, man. TWO HOURS.
Trevor opens his mouth, incredulous.
— Six minutes. Six goddamn minutes. The store's three blocks away.
Brad agrees:
— It was six minutes.
Michael nods.
— Yeah.
Brad brings the camera close to Lester's face. The zoom catches a wet gleam in the corner of his eyes.
— You crying? — Brad asks, curious.
Lester wipes his eye with the back of his glove.
— No. Course not.
— You're real emotional about this vodka, Lester...
— 'Cause alcohol's the only thing stopping me from throwing him in a goddamn frozen lake.
Trevor breaks into a smile.
It's genuine. Wide. The kind of smile that lights up his angular face, softening the edges. The faint freckles on his cheeks become more visible as the skin stretches.
Michael looks away.
It's so abrupt that Trevor notices. The smile disappears, replaced by a "serious mode" that looks almost like a mask.
He goes back to listening to Lester talk.
Like he got caught staring too long.
[...]
[TIMECODE: 00:23:40]
The wind blows harder. The image muffles for a few seconds — the microphone picking up the white noise of the air.
Michael returns to the subject. His voice is calmer now, as if the story has already been worn down by repetition.
— The old contact. The one from the gas station. Keeps bringing up names of people I can't stand.
Lester listens only halfway. His eyes are fixed on the snow.
Trevor too. His gaze is lost somewhere beyond the camera.
Brad notices both of them looking in the same direction.
The camera follows.
A bush partially buried in snow moves near the court fence.
Lester's eyes go wide. The alcohol slowed his reflexes, but not his vision.
— LOOK! A RAT!
Michael and Trevor ask at the same time:
— Huh? Rat? What rat?
Brad:
— Where?
He points the lens at the bush. The image loses focus for three full seconds. The camera motor whirs as it tries to find the point.
The bush moves again. Dry leaves tremble under the snow.
Then a skinny tabby cat bounds across the snow in one leap. Its body is thin, ribs visible under the fur, yellow eyes glowing for an instant before disappearing over the other side of the fence.
Silence.
Lester blinks slowly, like he's processing the information in slow motion.
Trevor laughs first. An explosive sound, genuine.
Brad, behind the camera:
— That's a cat, Lester.
Lester shakes his head, denying.
— No. That was clearly a rat. With a very furry tail.
Michael is laughing too. He throws his head back, the stubble stretching across his neck. His laugh is deep, raspy.
— Jesus Christ, LESTER!
Trevor, between laughs:
— That thing was the size of a dog, Lester. A cat.
Lester defends himself:
— It was dark! And the snow messes with your vision.
Brad laughs so hard behind the camera that the entire image shakes. The edges of the frame vibrate.
Michael covers part of his face with his hand, smoke escaping through his nose as he laughs low. He needles:
— You drunk idiot.
Lester retorts:
— You sober paranoid.
The Caucasian man shakes his head.
— Trevor stressed me out today. But you, Lester, you're managing to piss me off more than him.
Trevor stands with his arms crossed, the "serious mode" back. But the camera light reveals a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before.
Lester ignores him and looks at Trevor:
— You're funny today.
Brad:
— Lester, he looks normal.
The camera focuses on Trevor's serious face. His eyebrows are furrowed. His jaw is tight.
— Why? — Trevor asks, voice flat.
Lester laughs. It's a wet sound, drunk, with a hint of malice.
— I dunno. I think it's 'cause you're tryna do this 'serious mode' thing, but sometimes you end up with this little smile on your face 'cause you can't stay mad at Michael.
Trevor freezes.
His face transforms: cheeks go red, ears too. His mouth falls open, the brown eyes wide, lips parted without sound.
Then he smiles.
It's a small smile, crooked, embarrassed. He backs away, turning his back to the camera.
— Fuck you, Lester.
He walks to the picnic table and sits alone. His back is straight, but his shoulders are tense.
Pointing at Lester, he shouts:
— You see that?! — He points again, like he just won the most important argument in the world. — He thinks you're crazy too!
Michael tells Trevor to go fuck himself.
But Michael is still flushed. And Trevor noticed.
The camera kept rolling.
Fifteen minutes. None of them noticed.
[...]
[ABRUPT CUT]
[TIMECODE: 00:40:12 – 00:40:15]
Blue static. Blown-out audio. The hum of a television tuned to nothing.
For three seconds, nothing.
Then the image returns.
[...]
[TIMECODE: 00:40:16]
It's night now.
The recording quality is even worse. The square's streetlights create huge yellow halos on the lens —blurry rings that tremble with every movement. Dark areas become granular blotches that swallow the frame's edges. The snow reflects the artificial light with a metallic sheen.
Brad is sitting on one of the picnic tables inside the gazebo.
He looks different.
Without the camera in hand, his posture is too relaxed — shoulders slumped, legs spread. His thick jacket is open halfway, revealing an old white T-shirt with a faded "Air Force Academy" logo, stained near the collar. His cheeks are red—not from cold, but from alcohol. His eyes are glazed, pupils dilated.
On the table in front of him:
Lester's flask (now nearly empty), a crumpled pack of Redwood cigarettes, a rusty-bladed pocket knife, a small bottle of black nail polish with the cap screwed on, a pack of rolling papers, and a thin line of cocaine— white powder gleaming under the yellow light, aligned with the precision of someone who knows what they're doing.
The camera trembles slightly. Lester clearly still hasn't mastered the equipment. His hand is visible at the edge of the frame — pale fingers, short, holding the camera like it's a strange object.
Brad squints against the red "REC" light.
— You recording?
Behind the camera, Lester:
— I think so.
Brad laughs, voice rough.
— Whaddya mean "think so"?
— I'm a cripple, not a cinematographer.
Brad laughs loud through his nose. He leans forward, and the camera zooms in by accident. Brad's face becomes a granular blur — only his amber-almost-green eyes visible, the light freckles, the chapped lips.
Lester compliments:
— Quality's good, Brad. Looks vintage. Soviet basement porn camera.
Brad scoffs:
— That's the second time you've mentioned porn today, Lester.
— 'Cause everything in Midwest looks like Soviet porn. The snow, the streetlights, the desperate-looking guys.
Brad snorts the line of coke without ceremony.
The camera catches the dry sound of his breathing—a sharp whistle as the powder goes in. The motion is quick, professional.
Then silence.
Brad sniffs hard and lets out:
— Jesus Christ...
Lester:
— You alive?
— Unfortunately.
Lester laughs behind the camera. The image wobbles.
The focus takes a few seconds to stabilize. Lester sets the camera better on the table—the wooden surface creaking under the weight.
— Play "Never Have I Ever" with me.
Brad huffs.
— That's a kid's game. We're criminals. In our twenties.
Lester raises the flask.
— Never have I ever... Stolen a military vehicle.
Brad raises his hand immediately.
Lester:
— Go fuck yourself, Brad.
— Technically wasn't theft. The owner was dead.
Lester laughs so hard the camera shakes completely. The sound of his laugh is wet, raspy, almost a choke.
Brad grabs the flask.
— My turn. Never have I ever... Woken up in a ditch without remembering my name.
Silence.
The camera slowly turns toward Lester.
Lester complains:
— Don't film me, Brad.
Brad whispers:
— Lester...?
— Don't film me.
Brad cackles.
— That happened?
Lester drinks the vodka straight from the neck. The liquid goes down in long gulps, and he wipes his mouth with his gray coat sleeve.
— Midwest is a complicated place for a cripple, my friend.
The wind blows hard outside the gazebo. The camera catches snow sweeping across the empty court in the background — white swirls under the yellow lights.
Brad mutters:
— Okay, okay...
He sniffs again. The coke is already hitting—his eyes are brighter, his posture more upright.
— Never have I ever... Almost blown up a gas station by accident.
Lester:
— Almost?
Brad laughs:
— When Trevor gets back, you ask him.
Lester mutters "Jesus Christ" with an indifference that's almost theatrical.
Brad tells the story:
— Three years ago. Interior of Canada. Some guy selling illegal fuel out of a shed.
Lester zooms in. The image gets grainier, but Brad's face is still visible.
Brad continues:
— Trevor had this brilliant idea to rob the place.
Lester interrupts:
— There's never a good sentence that starts with 'Trevor had an idea'.
Brad points a drunk finger at the camera. He's already laughing before he finishes:
— LISTEN TO THIS. He finds some dynamite inside the shed. And he starts spinning that shit around like a goddamn cheerleader.
Lester laughs before the punchline. The laugh is disbelieving, dismissive.
— No.
Brad swears:
— I swear. I swear on my life. He tripped over a bucket.
Lester loses it completely. The camera shakes. The image blurs for two full seconds.
Without meaning to, the framing drifts off the gazebo.
The lens finds the basketball court.
Silence.
Brad keeps talking in the background, his voice distant:
— And the old man starts running 'cause he thinks he's gonna die...
But Lester isn't paying attention anymore.
In the center of the empty court, under the yellow lights casting long shadows on the frozen concrete, Michael and Trevor are sitting on the ground.
Too close together.
Legs touching — jeans against black pants, knees meeting.
Trevor holds a lit joint between his fingers. The burning tip illuminates his face from below, highlighting the curve of his jaw and the wetness in his eyes.
Michael is saying something too close to his face.
The camera zooms in slowly.
Grainy. Unstable. Too intimate.
Trevor hands the joint to Michael. Their fingers brush. Michael takes a drag, smoke escaping slowly from his lips.
Then he cups Trevor's face by the jaw.
It's a gesture so natural it looks rehearsed. Michael's hand wraps around Trevor's angular jaw, thumb resting on his cheekbone. Michael's stubble scratches against Trevor's pale skin.
And he kisses Trevor.
Slowly.
Without hurry.
Like it's happened hundreds of times before.
Michael's lips move against Trevor's with a familiarity that hurts to watch. Trevor doesn't flinch—he tilts his head, adjusts the angle, and his free hand finds Michael's shoulder, gripping the leather of his jacket.
The audio from the square is distant now.
Just wind.
Breathing.
Lester lets out a disbelieving laugh behind the camera.
Quiet.
He mutters, voice thick with alcohol and surprise:
— Oh my God... No way...
Brad still talks, completely oblivious:
— And the guy's on fire in the snow, it was the dumbest thing I ever saw in my life...
Lester slowly turns the camera back toward Brad.
Brad continues, distracted:
— You're not listening to a word I'm saying, are you?
Lester's voice comes out rough, amused:
— You have NO idea.
The camera turns toward Brad's face.
The blonde is confused, amber eyes narrowed.
— What?
Lester just smiles. A dirty, drunk smile that he doesn't share with anyone.
He turns the camera toward himself — his face framed for a second, the crooked glasses, the flush on his cheeks — and stops the recording.
[...]
[ABRUPT CUT]
[TIMECODE: 00:51:30 – 00:51:33]
Static.
Then the recording returns without warning.
[...]
[TIMECODE: 00:51:34]
The camera is too close to Michael's face.
Only half of him appears in the frame — one blue eye, the iris gleaming under the streetlights; his nose red from the cold; part of his mouth, lips slightly wet. The stubble is almost gone — he shaved this morning, and the shadow only shows at certain angles.
Heavy grain covers the image.
Michael asks quietly:
— It recording?
Trevor's voice, from off-camera:
— I think so.
Michael laughs, a short sound.
— You think so? Jesus. Everyone in this crew answers like that?
Trevor's laugh:
— It's contagious.
Michael laughs through his nose. The image wobbles as he turns the camera.
Now they're both lying on the basketball court.
The concrete is partially dry where the snow melted, but the rest is old ice built up in the court's cracks. The streetlights reflect off the wet patches, creating a metallic shimmer that flickers with every movement.
Trevor lies beside him. The orange beanie sits crooked, almost covering one eyebrow. The dark blue sweater is rumpled, riding up slightly at his stomach, revealing a strip of pale skin. His arms are crossed behind his head — a relaxed, confident gesture.
His face is turned toward Michael.
He's not looking at the camera.
He's looking at Michael.
Michael notices.
— Stop looking at me like that.
Trevor plays dumb, but a smile plays at the corner of his mouth.
— Like what?
Michael blinks. Laughs.
— Like a dog that got hit by a car.
The two exchange a quick back-and-forth—a playful argument, words crossing the frozen air like flies.
Michael brings the camera back to his own face.
— Always wanted one of these cameras.
Trevor moves closer. The motion is slow, like he's floating on the ice.
— Yeah?
Michael makes a sound of confirmation:
— Mm-hmm.
Trevor props himself up on his elbow, body angled toward Michael. The joint still burns between his fingers.
— What the hell you want a piece-of-shit camera like that for?
Michael is quiet for a few seconds. The blue eyes drift to the court ceiling, where the streetlights create patterns.
— I dunno. Maybe shoot stupid shit. Little movies. Whatever.
Trevor smiles:
— Like Lester almost crying over vodka?
Michael agrees, a low laugh escaping.
— Exactly.
The wind cuts across the court. The audio hisses —white noise filling the silence between words.
Michael turns the camera to the sky. Dark clouds move slowly above the floodlights, casting dancing shadows on the snow.
— What d'you think about me stealing this camera from Brad?
Trevor laughs.
— Brad'd kill you.
— He can get in line.
Trevor tilts his head. The smile is crooked, one side of his mouth higher than the other.
— I'd let you steal from me.
Michael slowly turns his face toward him.
Even in the grainy image, you can see his cheeks flush—a redness the cold doesn't explain.
— Was that a pick-up line?
Trevor takes two seconds to answer. His voice is lower now.
— Maybe.
Michael laughs—a muffled sound, almost embarrassed.
— You're terrible at this.
Trevor rolls his eyes but doesn't lose the smile.
— I'm trying.
— Okay, okay. Fair.
The camera keeps recording everything crooked. Sometimes it only catches half their faces—Michael's chin, Trevor's forehead. Sometimes the focus drifts entirely, turning the background into abstract blobs.
But the movement is constant. They're in their own orbit, ignoring the wind.
Michael takes the joint from Trevor's mouth without asking. He drags.
The red tip lights his face for an instant—the blue eyes, the red nose, the wet lips.
Trevor watches every move.
— You look good.
Silence.
Michael holds the smoke before letting it out slowly. Even in the grainy image, the change is visible—the pause, the averted gaze.
— You say weird shit.
— You like it.
— Unfortunately.
Trevor starts laughing to himself. The laugh is low, genuine. Michael films that for a few seconds: just him laughing, the wind tangling the brown mullet, the beanie almost falling off, red fingers holding the joint.
Then Michael pulls back the zoom.
The camera slowly turns toward the gazebo. In the distance, Brad and Lester are still at the picnic table. Brad talks too loud, gesturing with the flask. Lester tries to light a cigarette, but the lighter flame keeps dying in the wind.
Trevor comments:
— Look like two unemployed guys waiting for a bus.
The image shakes because Michael starts laughing too.
In the background, Brad's voice yells some incomprehensible story about gasoline, and Lester screams:
— YOU TOLD THAT THREE TIMES ALREADY!
The Caucasian man comments:
— Those two are pretty wasted.
— Think they're gonna fuck?
— Trevor.
— It's a legitimate question.
— No. It's not.
Michael turns the camera away too fast to hide his smile.
Trevor still looks at him the same way.
Calm. Warm. Ridiculously sincere.
[...]
[TIMECODE: 00:57:12]
Michael brings the camera close to Trevor's face again.
Too close.
— You realize you look completely psychotic on this camera?
Trevor doesn't look away.
— You're in love with me anyway.
Michael is quiet.
The recording catches him laughing quietly through his nose.
Then:
— Maybe I'm crazier than you.
Trevor smiles that crooked smile again.
And Michael turns off the camera before the kiss appears.
[...]
[TIMECODE: 00:57:18]
Tape Technical Sheet:
· Total Duration: 57 minutes 18 seconds
· Abrupt Cuts: 3
· Content Identified: Group conversations, alcohol consumption, cocaine use, explicit language, moments of physical intimacy between Michael and Trevor.
· Tape Condition: Shows magnetic degradation in the last 2 minutes. Urgent digitization recommended.
[...]
END?
[...]
EXTRA SCENE – TAPE #1
TIMECODE: 23:11:04 – 23:14:37
[...]
[TAPE RESUMES]
[TIMECODE: 23:11:04]
The image flickers back to life with a wet crackle of static. The night is darker now — darker than the square, darker than the gazebo. The only light comes from a single streetlamp buzzing overhead, its bulb flickering like a dying firefly, casting jaundiced pools of yellow onto the snow.
Brad is standing in front of a wrought-iron gate. It's tall, ornate in that cheap suburban way — scrollwork curling into pointless spirals, paint peeling in strips, rust blooming at the joints like metallic flowers. Behind it, a row of identical houses sleeps in the dark, their windows blind and black.
The camera wobbles as Brad adjusts his grip. His breath fogs the lens for a second before clearing.
Brad turns the camera on himself. His face is flushed— not just from the cold now. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide, a sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the freezing temperature. The coke is working. The vodka is working. His smile is loose and stupid.
He gestures vaguely at the gate behind him.
— This is... This is a gate. — He laughs at his own observation. — Fancy-ass gate. Probably costs more than my car.
He pans the camera down. Lester is sitting on the curb, his cane resting across his knees, coat pulled tight around his bulk. His breath comes in short, visible puffs. His glasses are fogged over.
Brad points the lens at him.
— And this is Lester. Who's been sitting down for like... Ninety percent of this walk.
Lester doesn't look up. His voice is flat, deadpan.
— That's 'cause you ain't the cripple here, you ignorant fuck.
Brad sticks his tongue out at the camera—a childish gesture, absurd for a man his size. He laughs again.
— See? He's got attitude. That's the vodka talkin'.
He turns the camera back to his own face, the gate looming behind him like a skeletal cage. His voice drops to a theatrical whisper.
— So. Michael went to take a piss. Trevor took him somewhere to do it. — He raises his eyebrows meaningfully. — That was like... Twenty one minutes ago.
He checks an imaginary watch.
— Twenty minutes to take a piss. In this weather. Your dick'd freeze off in two. So either Michael's got a superhuman bladder, or...
He trails off, grinning.
Lester, still sitting on the curb, slowly turns his head toward the camera. He doesn't say anything. He just looks at the lens — directly, deliberately — and his mouth curls into a slow, knowing smile.
The kind of smile that says I know something you don't know.
Brad doesn't notice. He's too busy monologuing.
— Or they're makin' out in a snowbank somewhere. I dunno. — He shrugs. — Wouldn't put it past 'em.
Lester's smile widens. He says nothing.
The wind howls between the houses. Snow drifts across the empty street in lazy spirals.
Then, in the distance — footsteps.
Two sets.
Unsteady. Crunching through the layer of fresh powder with the rhythm of people who've had too much to drink.
Brad hears them. He swings the camera around, the image jerking violently before stabilizing.
Two figures emerge from the gloom.
Michael and Trevor.
They're walking side by side, close enough that their shoulders brush with every step. Michael's leather jacket is unzipped now, his shirt untucked, his dark hair a mess of wind and snow. His cheeks are flushed red — the same shade as his nose. He's laughing at something, head tilted back, exposing the pale column of his throat.
Trevor is beside him. The orange beanie is gone now— lost somewhere, probably — leaving his mullet fully exposed to the elements, dark strands plastered to his forehead by melting snow. His sweater is rumpled, and there's a smudge of something on his cheek. Dirt? Snow? Lipstick?
He's laughing too. The same laugh. The same rhythm.
They're both swaying.
Brad keeps the camera on them as they approach.
Michael steps into the circle of light first. His eyes are bright — too bright — and he blinks slowly at the camera like he's just noticed it.
— Man... — He drags the word out. — You know what I just realized?
Trevor stumbles up beside him, grabbing Michael's arm for balance. He doesn't let go.
— What? — Trevor's voice is loose, playful.
Michael gestures vaguely, almost knocking Trevor in the face.
— Alcohol... It does stuff to you. Effects. You know? Like... I never noticed before.
Trevor's grin widens. His head tilts, and his eyes —those big, brown, too-sincere eyes — fix on Michael's profile with laser focus.
— What kind of stuff?
Michael doesn't look at him. He's staring into the middle distance, lost in some drunk epiphany.
— Like... you get warmer. But not really. It's fake. — He laughs at himself. — And you say shit you wouldn't say...
Trevor's voice drops. Intimate. Warm.
— I like it when you say shit you wouldn't say.
Michael finally turns to look at him.
The camera captures it perfectly—the way Michael's face softens, the way his eyes search Trevor's like he's looking for something he already knows he'll find.
Brad makes a gagging sound behind the camera.
— Okay, you two. Save it for later.
Lester pushes himself up from the curb with visible effort. His cane scrapes against the frozen sidewalk as he finds his footing. He brushes snow off his coat and limps toward the group.
— You guys done? I'm freezin' my balls off out here.
Michael blinks, shaking off whatever moment he was having.
— Yeah. Yeah. Let's go.
The four of them fall into step—Brad in front with the camera, Lester beside him leaning on his cane, Michael and Trevor trailing behind.
They walk down the dark residential street. The houses loom on either side, silent and blind. Snow falls in soft, unhurried flakes, catching the streetlights in brief sparks before dissolving into shadow.
Brad pans the camera lazily across the street—the parked cars buried under white, the mailboxes wearing caps of snow, the skeletal trees reaching toward the sky.
— You know what? — Brad says, his voice slurred. — This might be the best day we've had.
Lester grunts, his breath pluming in the cold. The camera catches the corner of his mouth twitching.
— I hate agreeing with you. But... Yeah. Yeah, it was.
Behind them, Michael and Trevor are walking close again.
Too close.
Their hands are intertwined — fingers laced, knuckles white against the cold. Neither of them seems to notice. Or maybe they do, and they just don't care anymore.
Brad is too distracted filming the street to see.
The snow keeps falling.
Lester glances back, just briefly. His expression is unreadable. He turns forward without commenting.
Ahead, the intersection looms—a crossroads of dead-end streets, streetlights flickering in the dark.
Brad keeps talking.
— We should do this more often. You know? Just... get out. Drive somewhere. Stop somewhere different.
Lester hums in agreement.
— We need more days like this.
Michael's voice drifts from behind, low and content:
— Yeah... Where we stop to rest in some weird place.
The camera pans to the sky. Snowflakes drift across the lens like stars falling.
[...]
[TIMECODE: 23:14:01]
Lester's hand appears at the edge of the frame. He taps Brad's shoulder.
— Gimme that.
Brad blinks.
— What?
— The camera. Gimme.
Brad hands it over without argument—too drunk and too high to care. Lester takes it with his gloved fingers, the weight of it unfamiliar in his grip.
He points it at himself.
His face fills the frame — the crooked glasses, the flushed cheeks, the half-smile that's equal parts alcohol and amusement.
— Testing... Testing... — He squints at the lens. — This thing still on?
Behind him, the street stretches into darkness.
And in the middle of that darkness, Michael and Trevor are walking.
Still holding hands.
Still stumbling.
Still laughing about something only they can hear.
Lester tilts the camera slightly, catching them in the background of his self-shot.
He doesn't say anything about them.
He just watches them.
Brad, now camera-less, turns to see what Lester is filming. His gaze lands on the pair behind them. His eyebrows go up.
— Oh, come on. You two are still doin' that?
Michael doesn't bother to let go. He just smirks, his teeth flashing white in the dark.
— Jealous, B?
Trevor squeezes his hand tighter, grinning like an idiot.
Brad scoffs, turning away.
— Nah, man. I'm good. You two go ahead. Play your little games.
He steps closer to Lester.
— What about you, Lester? Want to hold hands too? Make it a foursome?
Lester doesn't even look at him. His voice is dry, deadpan, delivered straight into the camera's lens with perfect comedic timing.
— Nah. The cane's already holdin' my hand. That's enough for me.
Brad bursts out laughing — that loud, obnoxious laugh that's been echoing through the whole goddamn tape.
Lester's lips twitch. He almost smiles.
Behind them, Michael and Trevor catch up, still hand in hand, and the four of them stand at the intersection — laughing, swaying, breath fogging in the cold.
The camera captures all of it.
The snow.
The streetlights.
The way Michael's thumb traces lazy circles on the back of Trevor's hand.
The way Trevor looks at him like he's the only warm thing in the entire state.
The way Brad's laugh echoes off the silent houses.
The way Lester just watches it all with the smallest, most knowing smile on his face.
[...]
[FADE TO STATIC]
[TIMECODE: 23:14:37]
[...]
· Duration: 3 minutes 33 seconds
· Location: Gated community entrance, Midwest Hills, North Yankton
· Content: Drunken walking, hand-holding (Michael and Trevor), Lester's knowing silence, Brad's oblivious narration, group camaraderie
· Cuts: None. Continuous shot.
· Tape condition: Slight warping at the end due to cold exposure.
[...]
[THE TAPE #1 END]