Tumbledown Page #2

You parasites are done running

Hunter through the rumor mill.

- Got that?

- Oh, boy.

Talk about barking up

the wrong tree.

If you're talking about magazines,

I agree with you-- they're trash.

- No, I'm writing a book.

- He's writing a book.

Traitor.

Look, and everybody that matters

is going to be in it, okay?

But Hunter Miles

could be its heart and soul.

All right.

Well, you're awfully tenacious,

I'll give you that.

Thank you.

But my husband was a person,

a real man.

And every song he ever wrote

and everything he ever touched is mine.

Got that? Mine.

The end.

Mine.

This crazy widow routine of yours,

does that work on people?

I mean, it seems

a little over the top.

- Sorry. That's too much.

- Yeah.

Andrew:

Sorry. Um, hey, look.

I've got respect fathoms deep

for everything your husband had to say

in those shattering songs, okay?

Those too few so--

where did you get that?

Hey! What are you doing?

Hey! Hey, whoa!

Come here!

Hey! Give that back.

Okay, lady, look.

That's not yours to ruin, okay?

Sorry. One second.

Please, will you give me back

my book?

Are you-- it's like

a snow globe in here.

It's-- a lot of work

went into this, you know?

Go ahead, sir. Please, please.

Are you kidding me?

Who does this?

You make a very lousy

first impression.

You know, there are

many stages of grief.

Oh:
yeah?

Hannah's currently

going through vandalism.

Yeah.

Spunky, huh?

Thanks for the warning.

"Lend an open heart

to Hunter's words

and you soon recognize

that these were always

wounded impre--

impre-- imprecations

from some distant remove,

a windswept field of high grass

and dying light,

otherworldly, Elysian."

Ugh. "The man was singing

from transcendence

long before his soul floated

across that deep cold river...

yet he shines with hope.

He pulls you beneath the covers

for a flashlit whisper session...

shining on to who we are,

what we run from...

and who we hope

in our hearts to become."

I'll make other plans

To meet you

On a distant shore

Of your choosing

Be your guiding light

On the horizon...

Hannah on machine:

Hi, I'm not here.

Leave a message.

Andrew:

Okay, look, um,

I just assumed

after a couple of years...

you might be ready to talk about him.

I misjudged that

and I am really sorry.

But your husband means

a lot to me, genuinely.

All right, I'll tell you what.

I'm getting something

to eat at the diner

and then I'm leaving town, okay?

But I-- I really want

my notebook back, man.

Or what's left of it, anyway.

All right.

All I've decided

is that I'll listen to you.

Okay, but it's going to be

the sound of chewing for a minute.

You got 30 seconds.

Make your case.

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