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turning to page one
Brooks enters. The room is small, old, dingy. Heavy wooden beams cross the ceiling. An arched window affords a view of Congress Street. Traffic noise drifts in. Brooks sets his bag down. He doesn't quite know what to do. He just stands there, like a man waiting for a bus.
BROOKS (V.O.)
The parole board got me into this
halfway house called the Brewster,
and a job bagging groceries at the
Foodway...