INT. HALL OF DOORS - UNDERGROUND
A long, low hall under hanging lamps. Doors on every side, every one locked. ALICE (7), dust on her pinafore, kneels at a door no higher than her knee.
Through it: sunlight, flowerbeds, a fountain. She pushes her head at the opening. Not even that fits.
She locks the door and lays the tiny golden key back on the glass table. Beside it stands a little bottle that was not there before.
A paper label, tied round its neck: DRINK ME.
ALICE
It doesn’t say poison. I looked.
She drinks. The hall grows. The table legs rise past her like pillars of glass.
Ten inches tall, she runs for the little door. Stops. Turns.
Through the tabletop, far above her: the golden key, exactly where she left it.
She grips a table leg and climbs. Slides. Climbs. Slides.
