The room is silent except for a low-fi track spinning on a battered turntable. The needle skips once, a sharp scratch in the quiet.

(Without turning)You know, if you leave now, you’ll beat the morning fog on the bridge. Cloe doesn’t look up. Her shoulders tense. CLOE Is that what you want? For me to beat the fog?

(A bitter laugh)I want a lot of things, Cloe. I want this town to stop sinking. I want to wake up without feeling like I’m breathing underwater. But mostly? I want you to stop acting like staying here is a charity project.

(Softly, dangerously)If you’re gonna go, go. Don’t do it in slow motion.