[ Alan seems to freeze then as a strange image flashes into his mind: a room with two windows and a desk with a typewriter. If Beth notices anything, she might see his face pale slightly, but other than that, he tries not to look too rattled. The image fades from view, but that nagging headache still remains. ]

Yeah, I know. I get it, life isn't a picnic.

[ He sees her stare and he gets what she means even though she doesn't say anything. Maybe it's instinct, or maybe it's that feeling that he knows her well, even if he technically doesn't. Maybe he can just read her. ]

If he won't listen to anyone else, would he listen to himself? Well, himself but not himself.

Maybe I do, but I'm not getting any particular brainwaves, at least not yet. But if I do, you'll be the first to know. I'll be back, okay?

[ He nods to her and then heads up the stairs to the office. Once there, he takes a look around; it's a normal office, looking like it belongs to a writer. He could see himself writing here, anyway. Funny, because he does write here, just... not him him.

There's a picture on the desk that draws his attention: it's a picture of Beth's Alan standing next to her, and both of them are smiling. It's more than smiling; they look like they're laughing. Happy. So what the hell went wrong?

He looks away from the picture and sees a typewritten page on the desk. Alan picks it up and starts to read, and as he does so, he feels a chill creeping over him as if someone's slowly pouring ice cold water over him.

What is this? Why do I know this? Did he write this?

He picks up the page and heads back down the stairs and out the door to the back porch. ]

Hey. Do you know what this is?