Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQGRWYR3NZDV6Y801MM066

**Voice Sheet: Café Encounter in Alborn, MN** *(Marie sits at a small wrought-iron table outside the café, her camera resting in her lap. She flips through the photos she’s taken, her brow furrowed. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the quiet street. Hunter approaches, his boots scuffing lightly against the pavement. He hesitates before pulling out the chair across from her.)* **Hunter:** *(clears throat, polite but firm)* Excuse me, miss. Mind if I sit for a minute? **Marie:** *(startled, looks up, then relaxes slightly when she sees his badge clipped to his belt. She nods, gesturing to the chair, then says in rapid French)* Oh—oui, bien sûr. Vous êtes de la police? **Hunter:** *(blinks, then shakes his head slightly, as if clearing it)* Uh. Yeah, I’m Detective Hunter. With the Alborn PD. *(leans forward, elbows on the table)* I was hoping you might be able to help me with something. **Marie:** *(frowns, tilting her head. She switches to French, her words tumbling out nervously)* Aider? Avec quoi? Je ne comprends pas ce qui se passe ici. Tout le monde disparaît, et personne ne dit rien— **Hunter:** *(holds up a hand, grimacing)* Whoa, whoa—hold on. I don’t—uh. *(scrubs a hand over his jaw, frustrated)* Look, I don’t speak French. At all. Can you—maybe try English? **Marie:** *(blinks, then exhales sharply, switching to heavily accented but careful English)* Oh. I am sorry. I… forget. *(taps her camera)* I take pictures. Of the town. But—*(gestures vaguely toward the street)*—the people. They are gone. **Hunter:** *(nods, relieved she’s trying)* Right. That’s what I wanted to ask you about. You’ve been taking photos around town, yeah? Seen anything… unusual? **Marie:** *(bites her lip, then flips her camera around, showing him a photo of the empty town square from earlier that week)* Regardez. *(points)* There. The festival. It is always busy. But now—*(shakes her head)*—nothing. And the man at the orchard. He is gone too. **Hunter:** *(studies the photo, then looks back at her, voice low)* The orchard? You mean Old Man Calloway? **Marie:** *(nods quickly)* Oui. Calloway. He is not there. His truck is, but—*(mimes vanishing with her hands)*—poof. **Hunter:** *(grunts, pulling out a small notebook and jotting something down)* When did you notice he was gone? **Marie:** *(thinks, counting on her fingers)* Three days. Maybe four. I go to take pictures of the apples, and—*(shrugs, helpless)*—no one. **Hunter:** *(nods, then pauses, studying her face)* You’ve been asking around about this? **Marie:** *(hesitates, then nods)* Oui. But no one… *(makes a zipping motion over her lips)* They do not talk to me. I am new. A stranger. **Hunter:** *(grunts, sympathetic)* Yeah, small towns can be like that. *(leans back, then checks his phone as it buzzes. His expression tightens.)* Look, I gotta take this. But—*(pulls out a business card, slides it across the table)*—if you see anything else, or remember anything, call me. Even if it’s just a feeling. **Marie:** *(takes the card, turning it over in her fingers. She looks up at him, her voice quiet)* You will find them? **Hunter:** *(stands, tucking his notebook away)* That’s the plan. *(pauses, then adds gruffly)* And hey—if you need anything, or get spooked, you call me. Alright? **Marie:** *(nods, clutching the card)* Merci, Detective. **Hunter:** *(tips an imaginary hat, then strides off, phone already at his ear. Marie watches him go, then looks down at her camera, her thumb brushing over the shutter button.)*