They cut to black at 00:02:13. A single line of white text appears, centered, small-caps: FRIDAY. The date — JULY 14, 1995 — slides in beneath it like a time stamp on an old camcorder. The hum of a fluorescent store sign bleeds through the speakers. A kid laughs off-camera.

Cars line up; their headlights are constellations. People lean over hoods, blankets pulled tight. The movie flickers — grain and romance, cheap special effects that look like longing. Two teenagers in the backseat share a cigarette and make a plan that will later be flippant and then later solemn.

A teenager sidles in with a skateboard, ankle taped, eyes bright with plans that require other people to be absent. He ducks into the garage — an altar of posters: bands, movies, a faded Polaroid of a girl who left in winter.

Scene 1 — Corner Store, 08:17 [Subtitle: Heat presses through the air like a promise.]

Neon signs flicker. The smell of oil and old pizza clings to the air. Arcade machines keep score on tiny cathode-ray monitors. A girl with a shaved head beats the high score on a shooting game; her friends cheer like they've discovered radio in the dark. Quarters slide into slots with a clink like tiny coins of devotion.

[Subtitle: Two bucks, which is everything and also nothing.]