# The Case of the Loose Wire Show: Adverse Events · Lead: Connie Chase · Draft 1 > **This is the script.** The build is `podcast-loose-wire.html`, generated from this file. > Write here; the build is disposable. Run-sheet and production notes live in the > build only. > > Format: `##` opens a scene · `>` is a sound cue · `**CAPS**` is a speaker · > everything else is speech · blank line between paragraphs · `*(beat)*` inline. --- ## COLD OPEN — 0:20 **CONNIE (V.O.)** Eighteen hours a day, she wore it. Every day. Never missed once. Eighteen hours a day was not enough. > — music sting — **ANNOUNCER** Adverse Events. From the case files of Dr. Tracy Grant, who writes the protocol, and Connie Chase, who makes it happen. **ANNOUNCER** The story you are about to hear is fiction. Any resemblance to your last study is purely coincidental and entirely predictable. **ANNOUNCER** *The Case of the Loose Wire.* --- ## SCENE ONE — THE EQUIPMENT ROOM > a crate dragged across a floor · a lid off · small hard objects turned over in a box · a wrist strap pulled tight, then released **CONNIE (V.O.)** The VIGIL trial. Variability In Gait, Independence and Living, which is a great deal of dignity to hang on sixty people agreeing to wear a watch. The letters came first. They always do. > a strap again · a buckle Not a watch, strictly. It doesn't tell you the time and it won't tell you anything else either. You put it on a wrist, it counts, and twelve weeks later you take it off and find out what it thought of you. Sixty of them came in a crate the size of a footlocker. Sixty little cradles to charge them in. Sixty instruction cards, printed by somebody in this building whose name I never got. > a card off a stack Two lines on the card. Wear it every day. Charge it daily. That's the whole card. I have read it maybe four hundred times since, and it is still two lines, and it is still wrong, and you cannot see what's wrong with it by reading it. > a drawer Number thirty-one picked hers up on a Tuesday. Asked me which wrist. Asked me whether it minded water. Asked me what happened if she forgot, and I said nobody's ever going to be cross with you, Mrs. Ruiz, we just want to know how the week actually went. She wrote that down. On the card. In pen. > — music bridge, four bars, then under — ## SCENE TWO — THE TURN > a printer running long · pages falling into a tray · the printer stopping **CONNIE (V.O.)** Every fourth Friday the units come back in, get read out, and turn into a stack of paper about an inch thick. One line per person. Percent of the day the thing was on a wrist. That number is the whole ball game, because the analysis plan says under seventy percent and you come out of the study, and a number written into a plan is not a number anybody argues with on a Friday. > pages turned, several at a time Fifty-nine people between eighty and ninety-six. > the turning stops Thirty-one. Seventy-four. Four points off the edge of the world. > — music bridge, two bars — ## SCENE THREE — THE INVESTIGATION > a radiator knocking · no printer · a chair, and no other chair **CONNIE (V.O.)** Now. You don't go straight at a person. Not first. First you brace the machine, because a machine has no feelings to hurt and no reason to be polite to you about it. > a unit set on a desk · a cradle · a small click as it seats So I got her unit off the rack and gave it the third degree. Twice. Battery: fine. Memory: fine. Clock eleven seconds slow across six weeks, which is nothing. That unit was in better shape than I was, and it clammed up like it had a lawyer coming. > a handset lifted · a number dialed So I went over its head and called the people who built it. > ring · click **RECORDED VOICE** Thank you for calling technical support. Your call is important to us. Please have your unit serial number, your firmware revision and your institutional account number ready before speaking to a representative. Your estimated wait time is longer than forty minutes. > the hold music starts · the handset set down on the desk, still playing, and left there **CONNIE (V.O.)** Forty minutes isn't a wait. Forty minutes is a brush-off. I let it play anyway. Seemed like company. > the hold music continues, faintly, under everything that follows Second suspect: us. Sixty units, one rack, one download cable, a coordinator with a clipboard doing forty of them in an afternoon. Plenty of room in there for somebody's hands to get crossed. So I went through our story looking for the hole in it. Every unit, every visit, initialed and dated. Then I slipped her a ringer, a different unit off the rack entirely, which is what you do when you're out of ideas and would rather look busy than beaten. > pages, a month later, the same sound as before Four weeks. New unit. Seventy-four percent. > the hold music, still going Our story checked out. The machine's story checked out. Which leaves the third suspect, and there is always a third suspect, and it is always a person. > a handset picked back up, the hold music suddenly loud, then the receiver dropped into the cradle · silence Sixty people on that roster and I could tell you what every one of them does for a living. Number thirty-one is the one who wrote on her card. But I'd been at this nine days, and the plan said seventy, and she said seventy-four, and I had a report going upstairs on Monday. > — music bridge, two bars — ## SCENE FOUR — THE OFFICE > a door · a chair down the hall · paper set on a desk **CONNIE (V.O.)** Dr. Grant was still in, which is how I knew it was after seven without looking. **CONNIE** I've got a name to put on the drop list and I don't like it. **TRACY** Thirty-one. **CONNIE** Seventy-four. Twice. Two different units. **TRACY** Then it isn't the unit. **CONNIE** That's what I keep telling myself. It's not the unit, it's not us, so I'm all out of suspects and the last one on the list is a sixty-two-year-old woman who wrote *which wrist* on her instruction card in pen. > a beat **TRACY** Seventy is a threshold, Connie. It is not a judgment about her. **CONNIE** It's going to read like one in the paper. **TRACY** *(beat)* It will, yes. > a chair **TRACY** Call her. **CONNIE** And ask her what? Whether she's been lying to me for ten weeks? **TRACY** Ask her what she does with it. You have been asking the equipment for nine days. It has told you everything it knows. > — music bridge, two bars — ## SCENE FIVE — THE CALL > a phone dialed · ring · ring · pickup · a television turned down somewhere behind the voice **CONNIE** Mrs. Ruiz? It's Connie, from the university. Is this a rotten time? > the voice on the line — warm, unhurried, never words **CONNIE** No, nothing's wrong. Nothing at all. I'm being nosy, is all. *(beat)* Can you walk me through your day with it? From getting up. > the voice, going on a while **CONNIE** Uh huh. And it stays on for all that? > the voice again **CONNIE** Even the shower. Good for you. > the voice, shorter **CONNIE** And then at night? > the voice · and underneath it, small and clear, a click **CONNIE** *(beat)* Mrs. Ruiz, what was that? > the voice, cheerful, brief **CONNIE** That's the charger. > HOLD — three full seconds · the television behind the voice · nothing else **CONNIE** No. No, you did exactly right. *(beat)* You did exactly what the card said. > handset down, slowly **CONNIE (V.O.)** Charge it daily. Two words on a card, and not one of them was *when*. She plugged it in when she went to bed, because that is when a sensible person plugs a thing in, and she took it off the charger when she got up, because that is when a sensible person takes a thing off a charger. Eleven at night to five in the morning. Six hours. Every night, without fail, for ten weeks, because she is the kind of woman who does what the card says. > a pen · a line drawn on paper Eighteen hours out of twenty-four is seventy-five percent. There is your seventy-four. It was never a slope. It was a rectangle, and I had been looking at it every fourth Friday since April. > — music bridge, two bars — ## SCENE SIX — THE CHANGE > a window open · traffic · a crate again, and cards off a stack **CONNIE (V.O.)** Here is the part I'd like on the record. The most reliable person in that study read exactly like the least. Not close to it. Identical. A woman who never once forgot, and a woman who'd quietly given up on us in week three, come off that printer as the same number, and there is nothing in the number that tells you which one you're holding. > a card set down · a pen So I wrote a third line on the card. *Charge it while you shower.* Four words, felt-tip, sixty cards, one evening. And I put a question in the week-one call, which is the fix I'd actually defend, because the card only helps the people who get the new card. The question is: when are you going to charge it? Not do you understand. Not any questions. When are you going to charge it. You ask somebody how they're going to do a thing and they tell you how they're going to do it. You ask them whether they understand and they tell you yes, because they're being polite, and because they do understand. She understood it perfectly. That was the trouble. > a drawer, and cards going into it Ten weeks of her nights are gone and I can't get them back. She finished the study. She's in the numbers. I've been doing this nineteen years and I'd have signed that drop list. I want that on the record too. > the crate lid Nobody ever writes a card wrong on purpose. They just write it on a Tuesday, for somebody they've never met, and leave out the one word that turns out to be the whole thing. > — music — **ANNOUNCER** This has been *The Case of the Loose Wire.* --- ## SIGN-OFF — 0:30 > — music up — **ANNOUNCER** Dr. —— appeared as the Voice of Technical Support. **ANNOUNCER** Adverse Events is brought to you by Software for Research. For those who love discovery more than data entry. **ANNOUNCER** And even though the data safety monitoring board recommends we stop whenever they hear us: this is Adverse Events. > — music out —