A long, narrow room with bunkbeds. The boys aren't sleeping. They're grouped around Michael Quinn's bunk. One boy has his hand clamped to Michael's, mouth, the others are wailing on him... and outside --
Spareth the rod, spoileth the child.
INT. ORPHANAGE - MORNING
Put breakfast away, Mr. Fong.
Stop. You'll have your breakfast.
Michael Quinn kneels before the door, examining the lock. He looks around. On a counter next to the door are EATING UTENSILS. Michael Quinn picks up A FORK. He bends the fork's tines. Inserts it in the lock. He fishes around for a second. Nothing happens. He pulls the fork out, rebends it, and inserts it in the lock again. And CLICK.. ..the lock pops.
No. Simon. . . .
(pulls the "KNIGHTS TEMPLAR" paperback from his back pocket)
Translate and read this script in other languages:
Select another language: