I never expected that they would have...
–Do you want one, two? –I want one.
–One? –I want two.
All right, so here's your room.
Or as I like to call it, Sleep Pod Two.
Thanks, Dave.
No problem, dude. It'll be nice having you around.
–How long you planning on staying? –I'm not sure.
Dave, can I pose a somewhat abstract, purely hypothetical question?
Sure.
If you knew you were gonna die...
...possibly soon...
...what would you do?
Wow, I don't know.
Am I the richest man in the world?
No, you're you.
Do I have a superpower?
No, you're you.
I know I'm me, but do I have a superpower?
No, why would you have a superpower?
I don't know, you said it was hypothetical.
Fine. Yes. You're really good at math.
That's not a power, that's a skill.
Okay, you're good at math and you're invisible.
–And you know you're gonna die. –Okay, okay.
That's easy, I'd go to space camp.
Space camp?
Yeah, it's in Alabama. It's where kids go to learn how to become astronauts.
I've always wanted to go since I was 9.
You're invisible and you'd go to space camp?
I didn't pick invisible, you picked invisible.
Aren't you too old to go to space camp?
You're never too old to go to space camp, dude.
Space camp.
One hundred and twenty-two guitars.
Seven hundred and thirty-two strings.
Two hundred and fifty-seven pickups.
One hundred and eighty-nine volume knobs.
Here Harold stood, face to face with his oldest desire.
And stand is almost all Harold did.
It wasn't just about finding a guitar.
It was about finding a guitar that said something about Harold.
Unfortunately, this guitar said:
“When I get back to Georgia, that woman gonna feel my pain. ”
This one said something along the lines of:
“Why, yes, these pants are Lycra.”
These said, “I'm very sensitive, very caring...
...and I have absolutely no idea how to play the guitar. ”
“I'm compensating for something. Guess what. ”
And then Harold saw it.
A damaged and terribly mistreated sea-foam-green Fender...
...staring back at him.
Despite its obvious maladies...
...the guitar spoke with conviction and swagger.
In fact, it looked Harold directly in the eye and very plainly stated:
“I rock.”
Just breathe. Watch it!
We've got a 21 -year-old male with a gunshot wound to the chest.
There you go.
Shot in a gang fight? Harold's not in a gang.
Man in tweed?
There's nothing wrong with him, he just likes looking at sick people.
Oddly spoken with disdain.
This isn't working.
Well... I don't even know why we're here.
I don't think we're supposed to be here.
–You said I needed visual stimuli. –I meant a museum.
I don't need a goddamn museum. I need the infirm.
You are the infirm.
You're right. The problem is these people aren't dead...
...they're just severely injured.
Excuse me, where are the dying people?
Most of these people are sick or injured...
Which is great, don't get me wrong.
–But they're gonna get better, which doesn't really help me.
Is there any way to see the people who aren't going to get better?
Excuse me?
I'd like to see, if at all possible, the ones who aren't gonna make it.
You know, the dead-for-sure ones.
I'm sorry, are you suffering from anything?
Just writer's block.
With every awkward strum...
...Harold Crick became stronger in who he was...
...what he wanted, and why he was alive.
Harold no longer ate alone.
He no longer counted brushstrokes.
–Harold, I'll see you. –He no longer wore neckties.
Bye, Dave.
And, therefore, no longer worried about the time it took to put them on.
He no longer counted his steps to the bus stop.
Instead, Harold did that which had terrified him before.
That which had eluded him Monday through Friday...
...for so many years.
That which the unrelenting lyrics...
...of numerous punk-rock songs told him to do:
Harold Crick lived his life.
But despite resuscitating his life...
...reviving his hope, and instilling a few wicked calluses...
...Harold's journey was still incomplete.
And Harold's wristwatch wasn't about to let him miss another opportunity.
Ms Pascal?
–Ms Pascal? –Mr Crick.
–Hi. –Hi.
I'm glad I caught you.
Oh, yeah? Why?
Because I wanted to bring these to you.
–Really? –Yeah.
So you can't accept gifts, but you can give them?
–Listen... –I don't know.
That seems a little inconsistent, doesn't it, Mr Crick?
Very inconsistent, yes.
I'll tell you what. I'll purchase them.
–No. –No, no, no, really...
...I'd like to purchase them. What are they?
Flours.
–What? –I brought you flours.
And you carried them all the way here?
Ms Pascal, I've been odd and I know that I've been odd.
And I want you.
–What? –There's so many reasons.
There's so many influences in my life that are telling me...
...at times quite literally...
...that I should come here and bring you these...
...but I'm doing this because I want you.
You want me?
In no uncertain terms.
Isn't there some very clear and established...
...rule about fraternization?
–Auditor-auditee protocol? –Yeah.
Yeah, but I don't care.
–Why? –Because I want you.
Well...
...do you mind carrying those a little bit further?
Okay.
Did you make a key?
No, I just committed it to memory.
–The blue, that's barley flour. –What's that one?
–The orange? –Yeah.
I forget.
Right here.
Do you wanna come up?
–To your place? –Yeah.
I guess I could.
Wasn't that the idea with the flours and everything?
Honestly, I only figured it out up to “I want you.”
Listen, Mr Crick...
...I think I like you.
And before I do anything rash, I'd like to make sure.
I'd like you to come up.
I'd be honored.
Great.
Yeah, he was nuts though.
He got caught when he tried to get the contract notarized.
No. No.
Was it good?
Thank you.
–You're welcome. –Can I help you?
No, no, I'm gonna put them in the sink. Go sit down on the couch.
So do you play the guitar?
–What? –Do you play the guitar?
Terribly. Someone traded me that for a wedding cake.
Does that mean I have to claim it on my taxes now?
–No. I'll leave it out of my final report. –Oh, thanks.
Do you play?
Not really. I only know one song.
Oh, play it.
No, I don't know it that well, actually.
No, come on. I promise I'm not gonna laugh at you. Play it.
No, no, no. Maybe some other time.
All right.
Ms Pascal?
–I... –I know.
I want you too.
Harold's life was filled with moments both significant and mundane.
But to Harold, those moments remained entirely indistinguishable...
...except for this.
As Ana let out a soft sigh and repositioned herself against him...
...Harold knew somewhere in his heart...
...that this was one of the significant moments.
He knew she was falling in love with him.
Professor Hilbert. It's a comedy.
–What? –A comedy.
The woman. The one who hates me. Ana Pascal?
–Last night... –Yeah?
She's falling in love with me.
–She is? –It's like a miracle.
The voice confirmed it in the middle of the night.
Well, that's wonderful, Harold.
I mean, it completely nullifies my list, but that's fantastic.
What list?
These are seven living authors whose prior work...
...would seem to make them candidates to write your story...
...based on the criteria you and I previously determined.
If your narrator is alive, she's on this list.
But it appears the list is of little use to you now.
Now that you're gonna live happily ever after.
Oh, goodie. This woman, Karen Eiffel, she's one of my favorite authors.
–Hi. –Hi.
Beautiful tragedies. Just beautiful. Anyway...
...let me quickly copy this list for you, just in case.
Sociopathic author.
–I just wanted to thank you. –Of course.
Listen, please, you must tell me if you hear the voice of the narrator again...
...just for my own edification.
I will.
Well, it's called Death and Taxes.
Wow. You know, I'm from Texas.
No. Not “Texas.” Taxes.
Death and Taxes. Death and Taxes.
Taxes. Like the Benjamin Franklin quote.
Precisely so.
This lady's a package, I'm telling you.
Tell us, what is this next book going to be about?
It's about interconnectivity.
The looming certainty of death.
Men's fashion accessories.
–Oh, my God, that's her. –What?
–That's the voice. She's the narrator. –No, that can't be right.
No, I'm positive.
Harold, this interview's a decade old.
I didn't think anyone actually wore cuff links anymore.
That's her.
–She's British? –She's her.
–Karen Eiffel? –Professor Hilbert, I know that voice.
Crap.
–What's wrong? –First of all, she wasn't on my list.
I figured you would have mentioned the accent and she doesn't...
She kills people.
–What? –In every book she...
The books are all about... They die. She kills them.
–Kills who? –The heroes.
Four Black Veils. What is that?
It's about a girl who loses several members of her family...
...in quick succession.
Where is she?
She's untraceable. Believe me, I used to teach a class on her.
I've written her letters. I mean, she's a hermit, she's a recluse.
Here. Here's the last book she wrote.
Look at the copyright. She hasn't published anything in 10 years.
She had knowledge of the city. Does she live here?
She used to, yes, but I mean...
Banneker Press. 2267 Wallace Street. Is that her publisher?
You're not listening. I said even if you find her she's not gonna...
Thank you for your help.
She only writes tragedies!
I don't believe in God.
Okay, he's bringing her flours.
Kay, where you been?
I went out to buy cigarettes...
...and I figured out how to kill Harold Crick.
Buying cigarettes?
As I was... When I came out of the store...
...it came to me.
How?
Well, Penny, like anything worth writing...
...it came inexplicably and without method.
I see. Then what happens?
It's perfect, actually. I can't believe I didn't think of it earlier.
It's simple, ironic...
...possibly heartbreaking.
Is that it?
Yes.
–You wrote it on legal sheets? –On the bus.
Well, then.
So I'll finish it today.
I'll let the publishers know.
I'll begin packing my things.
I appreciate it.
–Hi. Hello. Hi. –May I help you?
I need to speak to Karen Eiffel.
–I'm sorry? –Karen Eiffel.
She's one of your authors. I need to talk to her.
Well, sir, she's not here.
No. No, I know. I need to find her. I need to know where she is.
We're just the publishers.
Right. Of course. But there must be a way that I can contact her.
We have the address where her fan mail is sent.
No, I can't send mail. It's urgent.
How do you know her?
–I'm her brother. –Her brother?
–Her brother-in-law. –She has a sister?
No, I'm married to her brother.
Not in this state, the one over.
Sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave.
No. Okay. Listen.
I'm one of her characters. I'm new. I'm in her new book.
And she's going to kill me. Not actually. But in the book.
But I think it'll actually kill me so I just need to talk to her...
...and ask her to stop.
Hi, Harold. Nice sweater.
Hi, Harold. Phones are out.
Hey, Harold, 19 percent of 4632?
Hey, Harold. Back from your vaca?
Hey. Looking good.
–He looks terrible. –Yeah, banged up.
Wherever he went, I do not want to go.
Book me not there.
He's totally ignoring me.
Here, look at this now. There he goes.
It was good having you.
–Oh, dude, the phones are out. –Can I borrow your cell phone?
–The signal's down. –Damn it.
–You all right? –Dave, I need a favor.
–Sure, what is it? –Can I have some change?
Within moments, Harold found himself running across the plaza...
...heading for the nearest pay phone.
At last, he spotted it.
But as Harold neared the phone, he saw it was occupied...
...by an octogenarian determined to reach his daughter in Denver...
...no matter how many quarters it took.
Fortunately, Harold remembered a bank of phones...
...in the Sixth Street subway tunnel.
The baby's name isn't Mrs. Epstein. My daughter's name is Mrs. Epstein.
The first phone failed to give a dial tone.
And the second seemed to be splattered...
...with a fresh batch of mucus.
Harold dialed the third phone...
...fervently making sure to give each number key a specific forceful push.
Don't answer that!
Didn't you say this phone never r...?
–Hello? –Is this Karen Eiffel?
–Yes. –My name is Harold Crick.
I believe you're writing a story about me.
–I'm sorry? –My name is Harold Crick.
–Is this a joke? –No.
No, I work for the IRS. My name, Miss Eiffel, is Harold Crick.
When I go through the files at work I hear a deep and endless ocean.
–Oh, G...! –Miss Eiffel?
Hello?
Miss Eiffel? Hello?
Let him in.
Hello.
I'm Penny. I'm Kay's assistant.
Oh, I'm Harold. Her main character.
Oh, my God.
Miss Eiffel?
Your hair. Your eyes.
Your fingers.
Your shoes.
Hello.
I'm Harold Crick.
I know.
How did you find me?
We audited you a little more than 10 years ago...
...and your number was in the file.
I'm sorry, but this is incredibly strange.
You're telling me.
Didn't you think you were crazy?
Sort of.
But then you were right about everything. Like, everything.
And then you said, “Little did he know.”
–“Little did he know”? –Yeah. It's third-person omniscient.
Jesus.
Which meant it was, well, you know, someone other than me.
At least that's what Professor Hilbert said.
Professor Hilbert?
–Professor Jules Hilbert? –Yeah.
Yeah, he loves your books.
I love his letters. I don't...
So you understand why I had to find you...
...and ask you not to kill me. –What?
I mean, obviously you haven't written the end.
Harold...
I mean, now since we've met and you can see that I exist...
...you're not gonna kill me, right?
Have you written it?
I can... No.
–Have you written it? –An outline.
Okay. But it's just an outline, right?
–Yeah, sort of. –“Sort of”?
–It's just not typed. –“Not typed”?!
–Maybe that's okay. –What does that mean?
–I'm sorry, I'm trying to write a book. –What do you mean it's “okay”?
–What do you mean you're sorry? –Kay.
Let him read it.
–Did you find her? –Yeah.
–And? –I may already be dead...
...just not typed.
Is that it?
Did you read it?
I tried, but I couldn't.
You have to read it.
You have to tell me what to do or what not to do.
If I can avoid it...
If I have a chance...
Please.
Okay.
And here's your uniform.
It's a go. Banetta's outside, she'll assign you your locker.
–And you roll. –I'm ready.
Professor Hilbert?
–Hi, Harold. –Hi.
You look tired.
No, no, just calm.
Harold, I'm sorry.
You have to die.
What?
It's her masterpiece.
It's possibly the most important novel in her already stunning career...
...and it's absolutely no good unless you die at the end.
I've been over it again and again...
...and I know how hard this is for you to hear.
You're asking me to knowingly face my death?
Yes.
Really?
Yes.
I thought you'd... I thought you'd find something.
I'm sorry, Harold.
Can't we just try and just see if she can change it?
–No. –No?
Harold...
...in the grand scheme it wouldn't matter.
–Yes, it would. –No.
I could change.
I could quit my job.
I could go away with Ana.
I could be someone else.
Harold, listen to me.
I can't die right now.
It's just really bad timing.
No one wants to die, Harold, but unfortunately we do.
Harold...
Harold, listen to me.
Harold, you will die someday, sometime.
Heart failure at the bank.
Choke on a mint.
Some long, drawn-out disease you contracted on vacation.
You will die. You will absolutely die.
Even if you avoid this death, another will find you.
And I guarantee that it won't be nearly as poetic or meaningful...
...as what she's written.
I'm sorry...
...but it's the nature of all tragedies, Harold.
The hero dies, but the story lives on forever.
–There's an empty seat right there. –No, I wanna sit down over here.
Kay?
How many people do you think I've killed?
–Kay. –How many?
–I don't know. –Eight.
–Kay... –I've killed eight people. I counted.
They're fictional. Get up.
Harold Crick isn't fictional.
–I don't... –He isn't fictional, Penny.
Every book I've ever written ends with someone dying. Every one.
Really nice people too.
The book about Helen the schoolteacher.
I killed her the day before summer vacation.
How cruel is that?
And the civil engineer, Edward.
The one I trapped...
...with a heart attack in rush hour.
I killed him.
I killed...
Penny, I killed them all.
Miss Eiffel? Miss Eiffel?
–Harold. –Hi.
–I just finished it. –You just...
Yeah, I read it all in one read on the bus.
It's lovely.
I like the part about the guitars.
Well, thanks, thanks. Goo... Well, listen, I'm...
No, I read it and I loved it. And there's only one way it can end.
I mean, I don't have much background in literary anything...
...but this seems simple enough.
I love your book. And I think you should finish it.
The night before his death...
...Harold unsuspectingly went about some usual business.
He finished his outstanding audits.
He made a few phone calls he had been putting off.
Listen, does your program have an age limit?
And he traveled to Ms Pascal's...
...where she made him meat loaf and chocolate pudding...
...and the two watched old movies.
It was a nice enough evening.
And in any other circumstance it would've seemed commonplace.
In fact, the only thing that made this night significant...
...was the morning it preceded.
I have to tell you something.
You do?
I do.
–Is it a secret? –Sort of.
Tell me.
I adore you.
I adore you too.
–That it? –No.
I have to tell you this.
I just want you to listen carefully.
Okay.
You can deduct the value of all the food you give away...
...as a charitable contribution. –Harold.
No, no, no. In fact it amounts to more than what you're currently withholding.
And it doesn't break any tax laws.
Harold, the point is to break the tax laws.
I wanna make the world a better place too, Ana.
I think that means keeping you out of jail.
Okay.
Okay?
–Yeah. –Okay.
If you come over here...
...and talk a little more tax talk in my ear.
Because I like it so much.
Much had changed for Harold over the past few weeks:
His attitude towards work.
His habitual counting.
His love life.
But of all the transmutations Harold Crick had undergone...
...perhaps the most significant was that today on his return to work...
...he was not late for the 8:17 Kronecker bus.
What Harold had not understood...
...about that Wednesday four weeks prior...
...was that the time he received from his fellow commuter...
...was, in fact, three full minutes later than the actual time...
...and, therefore, three full minutes later...
...than the time to which his watch and life had been previously set.
Not the worst of errors.
But if Harold had not set his watch to the incorrect time...
...Harold would have again barely caught the 8:17 Kronecker bus.
And he would not be approaching the bus stop...
...precisely at 8:14 this particular Friday.
Excuse me.
Harold?
An otherwise ignorable fact...
...until the unthinkable occurred.
Oh, my God. Oh, my God.
I need for everyone to just stay seated.
Come on, son.
–What happened? I didn't see him. –It was not your fault.
He was trying to help the boy. Get your supervisor.
I don't believe this.
–It was all my fault, though. –No, it wasn't.
Is he okay?
–It looks likes he's breathing. –I don't think he's breathing.
Oh, my God.
Come in.
Excuse me.
Are you Professor Hilbert?
Yes.
Hi. I'm Karen Eiffel.
I believe we have a mutual acquaintance.
Please, sit down.
No, I just came by to...
Here.
–Is that it? –Yes.
Have you read it?
Is that all right?
Yes.
I think, perhaps, you may be interested in the new ending.
Good afternoon.
Oh, hi.
It's a pretty brave thing you did.
Stepping in front of that bus was pretty brave.
Kind of stupid, but pretty brave.
Oh, yeah.
Is that boy okay?
He's just fine. Scratched up is all.
Oh, good.
Am I okay?
Well, you're not dead.
On the other hand, it looks like you cracked your head...
...you broke three bones in your leg and foot...
...you suffered four broken ribs, fractured your left arm...
...and severed an artery in your right, which should've killed you in minutes.
But amazingly...
...a shard of metal from your watch obstructed the artery...
...keeping the blood loss low enough to keep you alive...
...which is pretty cool.
Yeah. So with some physical therapy...
...a few months of rest, you should be fine.
Well, sort of. We weren't able to remove the shard of watch...
...from your arm without risking severe arterial damage.
You'll be okay. You'll just have a piece of watch...
...embedded in your arm the rest of your life.
You're very lucky to be alive, Mr Crick.
Yeah.
–Dr Mercator, Mr Crick has a visitor. –Sure.
–My God, Harold. –Hey.
–I'm okay. It's all right. –Harold.
I'm fine.
Harold, you're not fine.
Look at you. You're severely injured.
–No, I'm fine. –What...? What happened?
I stepped in front of a bus.
What? Why?
There was a boy. I had to push him out of the way.
What?
I had to keep this boy from getting hit.
You stepped in front of a bus to save a little boy?
I didn't have a choice.
I had to.
It's... It's okay.
–It's not great. –No.
It's okay. It's not bad.
It's not the most amazing piece of English literature in several years...
...but it's okay.
You know...
...I think I'm fine with “okay.”
It doesn't make sense with the rest of the book though.
No, not yet. I'll rewrite the rest.
My assistant said she'd go back to the publisher...
...and request more time. –Why?
Don't know. It's awfully sweet though.
No, why did you change the book?
Lots of reasons.
I realized I just couldn't do it.
Because he's real?
Because it's a book about a man...
...who doesn't know he's about to die and then dies.
But if the man does know he's going to die and dies anyway...
...dies willingly, knowing he could stop it, then...
I mean, isn't that the type of man you want to keep alive?
As Harold took a bite of Bavarian sugar cookie...
...he finally felt as if everything was going to be okay.
Sometimes, when we lose ourselves in fear and despair...
...in routine and constancy...
...in hopelessness and tragedy...
...we can thank God for Bavarian sugar cookies.
And fortunately, when there aren't any cookies...
...we can still find reassurance in a familiar hand on our skin...
...or a kind and loving gesture...
...or a subtle encouragement...
...or a loving embrace...
...or an offer of comfort.
Not to mention hospital gurneys...
...and nose plugs...
...and uneaten Danish...
...and soft-spoken secrets...
...and Fender Stratocasters...
...and maybe the occasional piece of fiction.
And we must remember that all these things...
...the nuances, the anomalies, the subtleties...
...which we assume only accessorize our days...
...are, in fact, here for a much larger and nobler cause:
They are here to save our lives.
I know the idea seems strange.
But I also know that it just so happens to be true.
And so it was:
A wristwatch saved Harold Crick.