INT. CHRIS' APARTMENT - NIGHT

The apartment is small but clean.  Chris sits at a small table, reviewing a typed screenplay.  The script is titled "DREAMS."  He runs a hand through his hair, a tired expression on his face.  He makes notes on the script with a red pen.

EXT. BASKETBALL COURT - DAY

CHRIS (40s) and his young son, CHRISTOPHER (8), stand near a basketball hoop. Christopher dribbles the ball while Chris watches, a gentle smile playing on his lips.

CHRISTOPHER
I’m going pro, Dad.

CHRIS
(laughs)
Yeah? Well, I don’t know... You’ll probably be about as good as I was. That’s the way it works, you know. I was below average, so you’ll probably end up just as good as me.

(Christopher’s face falls. He stops dribbling.  The ball rolls to a stop at his feet.)

CHRIS (CONT’D)
Hey. Don’t ever let somebody tell you that you can’t do something. Not even me. Alright?

(beat)

CHRIS (CONT’D)
You got a dream, you gotta protect it. People can’t do something themselves, they wanna tell you you can’t do it. If you want something, go get it. Period.

(Christopher nods, picks up the ball, and starts dribbling again, a renewed confidence in his movements. Chris watches proudly, a mixture of pride and wistful reflection in his eyes.)

INT. CHRIS' APARTMENT - NIGHT

Chris is back at his table, typing furiously on his laptop.  He's making revisions to his screenplay, incorporating the scene he just witnessed with his son.  He types with a renewed energy, a determined look on his face.  The screenplay is now titled "DREAMS - REVISED."  The red pen lies unused beside him.

FADE OUT.