INT. TALK THERAPY ROOM - DAY
Adobe. Window to small fountain in small courtyard behind where DOC, 60-something - new jeans, wingtips that match the belt, bolo tie with dress shirt, long hair in a tail - sits at a 60s-era vintage school desk behind Hunter in a recliner aimed at an aquarium teeming with tropical fish. Hat rack near opening to hall. Hunter's legs crossed at ankles, hands clasped at waist, gaze aimed at the SOFTLY GURGLING AQUAIUM. Doc writes on a yellow legal pad. Finally:
DOC: What becomes of the body?
HUNTER: Cremation. I'm driving his truck to Kerrville tomorrow, will be there a couple days, fly back for his ashes, head back down for a week or so. I know we're way over time, Doc.
DOC: My two-thirty cancelled and the over is on the house.
HUNTER: Thanks. And for the short notice. I heard his boots last night. Or thought I heard what sounded like his boots. Three steps. In his room. I was in the kitchen. I checked.
DOC: The guest room.
HUNTER: Yes. As if he'd be there.
Hunter uprights the recliner. Doc stops writing.
HUNTER (CONT.): His cologne lingers.
DOC: In the guest room.
HUNTER: In the house. Faint, but strong in his room.
DOC: What was his cologne?
HUNTER: Stetson. Citrus and sage. They fit.
DOC: What fits?
HUNTER: His boots.
Hunter stands, Doc stops writing, stands.
HUNTER (CONT.): Size eleven. His hat's a little small.
Hunter extends hand, they shake.
HUNTER (CONT.): Thanks, Doc. I feel better.
DOC: Good. So off for next week.
HUNTER: Yes.
DOC: I'll be looking forward to your Kerrville report.
HUNTER: I'm going to meet his best and lifetime friend.
DOC: He'll probably have a story or two.
HUNTER: I reckon he might. I'll let myself out.
DOC: Okay.
Hunter extends hand, they shake again. Hunter leaves into hallway, Doc sits, resumes writing.
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