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It is March 13, 1998. Isaac, Taylor, Zac and Sera walk into a room together. It appears to be a bedroom. It has a set of bunk beds up against one wall and a grey table with Lego all over it. Isaac perches on the edge of the huge table and fiddles with a pile of green and yellow Legos. Zac lies down on the bottom bunk.

Taylor: Hey! That’s my bed, Zac.

Zac: I know. And I’m lying on it.

Taylor: Well, then, we’ll just have to sit on YOUR bed.

Zac: Go for it.

Taylor pulls out a trundle bed from underneath the bunk beds. Taylor and Sera flop down on it.

Sera: We’ve had a really weird time lately.

Taylor: Yeah, how many people can say they’ve--

Zac: I was really--

Taylor: Zac! I was talking!

Zac: Oh. Sorry, Taylor. Go on. You were saying...?

Taylor: Thank-you, Zac. As I was saying... Hey! I can’t remember what I was going to say, anyway. Thanks a lot, Zac.

Sera: Y’know, maybe we should write down what’s just happened. We’ll forget it, otherwise.

Zac: How can we forget it, Sera? We’re heroes.

Isaac: Well, if Taylor can forget what he was going to say five seconds ago, you can forget what happened a whole day ago.

Zac: Whatever...

Isaac: I think it’s a good idea, Sera. We can write it down like a story, y’know, from each of our points of views. That way people can read it and stuff, if they want to know all the details, not just what the newspapers said. We can do it in three parts, ‘cause it seems to, like, naturally divide like that.

Taylor: Yeah. You’d better write the first bit, Sera. It’s mainly about you, anyway.

Sera: OK, but where do I start?

Zac: What about the best day of your life, the day we came back from LA?

Sera: The best day of my life?! That was the worst day of my life! I’m being serious.

Taylor (frowning): Yeah, I wish that hadn’t happened.

Isaac: It’s over now, and we know we were all wrong. That’s what matters.

Sera: Yeah. Hey, Ike, can you pass me that pad of paper next to you? I want to start writing now.

Taylor: Hang on, that’s my drawing pad! You can’t use that!

Sera: Too bad, Taylor. Sacrifice the pad for the benefit of award-winning literature!

Taylor: As if our story would win any awards. It doesn’t look like I have a choice about the pad, do I?

Sera: Got it in one, kid. Pass me that pencil, if you please.

Zac: Hey, that’s my favourite pencil! You can’t use that, man!

Sera: Just pass me the pencil, ProZac. (Looks menacingly at Zac)

Zac (passing her the pencil): Whatever you say, Sera...

*****