INT. WEST AFRICAN HOSPITAL — DAY
A concrete hospital room. Hazy windows. DISANKA, a 12 year-old child lies quietly inside a clear, plastic tent surrounding her bed. A monitor is BEEPING in time with her heart rate, and rather slowly. An I.V. hangs outside the tent, with a line running beneath and into her arm. Little red spots dot her face and body. She is clearly in quarantine. Her mother, KAPIA, sits in a chair by her bed, a decorative scarf around her head. Kapia is holding a little doll in her hands.
KAPIA: I brought your dolly, Disanka. See?
Kapia holds it up against the plastic curtain.
KAPIA (falsetto): I’ve come to visit you. Will you play with me?
Disanka BREATHES HEAVILY and blinks her eyelids. The whites of her eyes are now deep red, typical of the final stages of the ebola virus.
KAPIA: Mukamba sends his greetings. He hopes you get better soon.
(beat)
You’re such a strong girl. I asked your teacher to send me your lessons for when you’re able. We can do them together.
(beat)
Do you remember when you would race Tshala on the road to school? You would always win. The dust in the air the only thing close to your feet! My little Gazelle. No one could ever beat you. Fastest girl in the village.
(beat)
Can you hear me?
Silence. Disanka blinks once.
Kapia gently places her open hand on the plastic between them.
KAPIA: Touch my hand. Touch my hand just once. Please.
Disanka moves her hand just a bit. She’s so tired.
KAPIA: Please. I need to feel your hand. There is no one else. Please little lamb.
Disanka’s hand inches towards the plastic.
The heart monitor BEEP is replaced with a SOLID TONE.
Disanka BREATHES her last breath.
KAPIA: Disanka?
(beat)
Disanka?
EXT. VILLAGE — DAY
Kapia is walking slowly down a dirt road towards her village, cheeks wet with tears. LAUGHTER fills her ears and a girl goes RUNNING by, kicking up dust as she goes.