Carter retrieved the movie script from the drawer of the trailer’s kitchenette. Just the heft of it soothed him, distracted him from the thought of Michelle. He ruffled the pages, the pleasing blips of dialogue flashing past, the chunky monologues. He wasn’t sure anymore which parts he’d written and which came from Jennifer. Everything was working beautifully in this latest draft. Bergmanesque, he thought, a phrase he’d first heard from Jennifer. Carter had not seen any Bergman movies, but he felt like he had.

There had been a night when he and Bobby had descended on a vial of pure Merck, the two of them giddy from the holy whiteness and chattering till the sun rose.

“Jennifer says it’s Bergmanesque,” Carter babbled.