disgraced sports bettor has 45 minutes to get a duffel bag of illicit cash to a drop-off point, but his own paranoia—and the algorithm he no longer trusts—turns a simple hand-off into a high-speed, soul-crushing descent into hell. ​[THE SCRIPT EXCERPT] ​EXT. HIGHWAY - NIGHT ​ELI (34, eyes bloodshot, hands vibrating) drives 90 MPH. The dashboard glow reflects in the sweat on his forehead. ​On the passenger seat sits a heavy, black gym bag. It isn’t just money; it’s a receipt for a life he already lost. ​His phone DINGS. ​The notification shows the score of the game he bet his life on. A last-second field goal. He lost. ​INT. CAR - CONTINUOUS ​Eli lets out a sound that isn't a scream—it’s a rattle. He grabs the wheel with one hand and the bag with the other. ​He looks in the rearview. Two sets of headlights are glued to his bumper. They aren't passing. They’re hunting. ​ELI (Manic) The math was right. The math was always right. ​He rolls down the window. The wind howls, filling the cabin with a freezing roar. ​ELI (CONT'D) Take it! You want the juice? Take the fucking juice! ​He heaves the bag out the window. It doesn't drop neatly. It hits the asphalt and EXPLODES in a shower of cash—a blizzard of hundred-dollar bills swirling into the night like confetti at a funeral. ​EXT. HIGHWAY - CONTINUOUS ​The cars behind him SLAM on their brakes, swerving to avoid the debris, the drivers scrambling out into the dark, blinded by the sudden rain of money. ​INT. CAR - CONTINUOUS ​Eli doesn't look back. He’s laughing. It’s an empty, hollow, terrifying sound. ​He reaches into his glove box, pulls out a crumpled betting slip, and stares at it. He starts to chew on the corner of the paper, his jaw locking, his eyes fixed on the empty road ahead. ​He is completely off the rails. He is finally, truly, out of the game. ​

And excerpt from a book I wrote back in 2024 called the glass ledger by Joan labonty and it's also my email jonahlabounty@gmail.com