To get back to the bedroom and the Birnam brothers: a small suitcase lies open on each bed. DON, the brother nearest the window, is bent over one, putting in socks, shirts, etc. He is thirty-three, an extremely attractive guy, but ten pounds underweight, and in his eye there is something rebellious, something sly. WICK, two years younger, is much sturdier, kindly, sympathetic, solid gold. He wears glasses and is smoking a cigarette. He is on his way from the closet to his suitcase with some stuff. He throws a sweater across to Don. WICK Better take this along, Don. It's going to be cold on the farm. DON Okay. WICK How many shirts are you taking? DON Three. WICK I'm taking five. DON Five? WICK I told them at the office I might not be back till Tuesday. We'll get there this afternoon. That'll give us all Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday. We'll make it a long weekend. DON Sounds long, all right. WICK It'll do you good, Don, after what you've been through. Don has crossed to the chest of drawers and fished out more shirts and socks. WICK Trees and grass and sweet cider and buttermilk and water from that well that's colder than any other water. DON Wick, please, why this emphasis on liquids? Noble, upstanding, nauseating liquids. WICK Sorry, Don. DON, his back toward Wick, is bent over the suitcase, packing. His eyes travel to the window. DON Think it would be a good idea if we took my typewriter? WICK What for? DON (Indignantly) To write. To write there. I'm going to get started on my novel. WICK You really feel up to writing? DON Why not? WICK I mean, after what you've been through. DON I haven't touched the stuff for ten days now.