DON'T COME BACK TOMORROW

A modest yard. Faded swing set.

A bike tipped on its side.

TYRELL (18), lean, sharp, protective older brother energy, adjusts his bike chain.

DOT (DOROTHY, 9) bursts out the front door barefoot, holding a couple crumpled dollar bills.

DOT:

“Ty! Wait!”

Tyrell groans, but smiles despite himself.

TYRELL:

“What now?”

Dot runs up, slightly out of breath.

 DOT:

“Can you get me a soda? And chips?”

 TYRELL:

“You got money?”

She holds up the wrinkled bills proudly.

DOT:

“I saved it.”

Tyrell narrows his eyes playfully.

 TYRELL:

“Since when you eat chips? Since when you got money?”

Dot shrugs. Then, hopping foot to foot.

 DOT:

“Just get ‘em.”

 Tyrell scrutinizes her for a second. He softens.

 He reaches out and touches her forehead.

TYRELL:

“You better not be hustlin’ me.”

DOT:

“Pinky Promise!”

He hooks her pinky with his, and takes the money.

TYRELL:

“Lock the door behind you.”

Dot nods seriously, before running inside. She peeks out of the door one last time, with an ear to ear grin.

He sets his bike back on the tires. Tyrell checks the chain by spinning the pedal with his hand. With his chain fixed, he hops on and rides off.

Tyrell cuts corners confidently.

Doing tricks on his bike as he rides.

 He takes in the sights:

• Kids playing basketball

• Lawn sprinklers

• Dogs barking

• Someone firing up a grill

He turns onto the main street sidewalk.

The sun is dropping lower.

He stops at the corner store.

[ADHAR’S MINI-MART]

Old sign above the door needs a paint job.

Bell above the door jingles.

Adhar (50s), sharp features, impatient, false smile baked into his face, looks up from the counter. He watches Tyrell like a hawk.

TYRELL:

“Just these.”

He sets the soda and chips on the counter. Duvid moves in to ask Adhar a question, but Adhar silences him with a raised palm. Adhar eyes the money in Tyrell’s hand, shaking his head in disbelief.

ADHAR:

“Cash? All you kids. Don’t you know what credit is?”

 Tyrell shrugs.

 TYRELL:

“Don’t got credit.”

Adhar snorts.

ADHAR:

“Future is plastic. Not paper.”

He rings it up, tossIng the change hard towards Tyrell’s palm. A couple coins bounce off the counter, and hit the floor. Adhar doesn’t apologize.

TYRELL (with a tight smile):

“Have a good night.”

 Behind them—

DUVID (early 20s, quiet, meek, decent guy) finishes stocking shelves, then tries to approach Adhar.

DUVID:

“Boss… I need the day off of work tomorrow. My mother—”

 Adhar cuts him off.

ADHAR:

“Always something. Lazy.”

Duvid tries again. Adhar kicks him lightly in the shin. Not brutal. But humiliating.

ADHAR:

“Go home. Don’t come back tomorrow.”

Duvid stiffens. Swallows it. He turns, walking to the restroom at the back of the store. Tyrell clocks all of it. Says nothing. Grabs the bag. Leaves the coins on the floor, and walks out of the door. The bell jingles on his way out.