EXT. DIRT PARKING AREA NEAR RIVER - DAY
Gil, three fishing poles in one hand, tackle box in the other, leads Roberto, 16, and Rodrigo, 14, each with a hand on a handle of a plastic fish container, away from the shallow stretch of river lined by pecan trees near a concrete bridge crossing, to the newish Chevrolet Silverado crew cab parked under tree shade near a narrow road as seven bicyclists in jerseys, lycra, helmets, ride toward them in single file at a Tour de France rate of speed.
Gil stores the poles in the bed of the truck, helps the boys load the container. They watch the riders zoom by, cross the bridge, ride out of view. The boys get in back, Gil in driver's seat.
INT. TRUCK
As soon as Gil transfers phone from pocket to console it RINGTONES (TBD).
ROBERTO: Who's that?
GIL: Aunt Ruthie.
(He picks up.)
Good morning.
(His face expresses the news he is hearing. The boys notice, look at each other.)
I'm here.
Ruth, I'll come by and pick you up. I need to get the boys home, then I'll be there.
Okay, sweetheart.
(He sets phone down, bows his head, crosses himself with right hand, whispers a prayer we cannot discern. He finally turns to the boys, his eyes welling up.)
RODRIGO: What's wrong, grampa?
GIL: Uncle Tommy is dead.
The boys bow their heads, cross themselves, whisper a prayer, raise their heads, eyes welling up. Rodrigo begins to whimper, Rodrigo puts an arm over his shoulder, scoots closer. Gil puts on sunglasses, starts engine, drives to road. A tear rolls down a cheek.
EXT. TRUCK
As Gil turns toward the bridge, crosses it, drives around bend out of view.