To mark the 20th anniversary of Footprints, I present a new and (I hope!) improved version of the very first episode, which was originally posted in October 1997. This “remixed” version will tell the same story as the official pilot episode, though fleshed-out in a variety of ways, and will be posted in two separate parts. If you dare, you can reference the original premiere episode here.

The lineup of red brake lights appears even more ominous against the gray blanket of sky that hangs over King’s Bay. The occasional honk of a horn punctuates the frustrated tension in the air as the cars creep forward, one by one, through the intersection up ahead.

With her manicured fingers wrapped over the top of the steering wheel, Molly Fisher lets out a groan. She should have known better than to take this route at this time of day — but her head is so full of thoughts, her body so full of adrenaline after what happened today that she isn’t thinking clearly. The 28-year-old’s brown eyes fixate on the green numerals displayed on the dash; she was supposed to be there eight minutes ago, and being pressed for time, let alone late, always stresses her out.

She attempts to focus on the Toni Braxton song playing on the car radio as traffic continues to inch forward.

Finally, she makes it up to the stop sign and is able to turn right. The rich green of the evergreen trees that line the streets pass by with increasing speed as she cruises toward her destination. The clock’s neon digits keep drawing her focus, but this path is second nature. She has been driving it ever since she first got her learner’s permit at age 15, and no matter how stressful a day she is having, there is something comforting about the familiar sights of her youth: the soccer field of the school that she, her two brothers, and her sister all attended; the perpetually burnt-out sign above the used-car dealership; the white fence that separates the four-lane highway from the creek that runs through the Pacific Northwest town.

Molly nearly does a double-take as she makes another turn and spots an unfamiliar sign in a rather familiar place. On the north side of the road, where she is so accustomed to seeing Irma’s Diner, with its charmingly faded 1950s accoutrement, there is something completely new. The sign features a cartoon coffee mug with black tendrils of steam rising out of it, accompanied by the words “Cassie’s Coffee House” in a whimsically cursive font.

I wonder how long that’ll last, Molly thinks. Trendy coffeehouses have been springing up all over the place the past few years — due in no small part to the characters on Friends spending so much time in theirs, she figures.

In a few more minutes, she makes it to the quaint neighborhood where she grew up. She parks her Honda at the curb outside her parents’ home. The two-story house is neither fancy nor overly large, but it is the epitome of the word “home” to Molly. The pristine white front door, repainted every few years, stands out against the soothing tan of the wooden shingles that cover the house. A short flight of wooden steps leads up to a small porch, flanked by a yard landscaped with blue spruce, rhododendrons, and other vegetation that is able to withstand the long, wet winters of the Pacific Northwest.

Molly looks across the street and sees Mrs. Longo, whose kids were about ten years ahead of her in school, retrieving her mail from the mailbox. She waves, and the neighbor waves back, her always-pleasant smile on her face as she collects the deluge of mail from the old-fashioned box.

At the top of the steps, she finds the front door unlocked, as always. Her parents have long had an open-door policy. Growing up, their children’s friends were always welcome to stop by for a snack or a meal, and now, even though only Molly’s youngest brother lives at home, the other three grown Fisher siblings can be counted on to pop in unannounced.

“Sorry I’m late!” she calls out as she removes her pumps and hangs her purse on a nearby peg.

“It’s no worry,” Paula Fisher responds from the kitchen. Molly moves through the living and dining rooms to meet her mother, whom she finds at the stove with an apron on.

“I’m just mashing the potatoes for later,” Paula says, a wooden spoon in hand. The matriarch of the Fisher family is in her mid-50s and stands about an inch shorter than Molly. She wears her ashen blonde hair just long enough so that it curls around the tips of her ears, and she radiates a warmth that even strangers seem to recognize.

“Well, I’m here to help now.”

“Thank you. You’re so good.” Paula quickly gives her daughter a peck on the cheek.

“What can I do? Have you started dessert?”

“Actually, I called in an order for a red velvet cake from this little bakery downtown. Kelley’s? Your sister said she would pick it up after work.”

“I hope she remembers,” Molly says with a hint of a frown.

“There’s chicken marinating in the refrigerator,” Paula continues. “Could you be a dear and take it out?”

“Of course.” Molly goes to the refrigerator and locates the large Tupperware container packed with breasts, thighs, and drumsticks. She can almost taste her mother’s signature lemon-garlic marinade already. As she places the container on the nearby countertop, she suddenly feels as if she is going to burst. The words coming flying out of her mouth:

“I was going to wait until the whole family was here, but… I have news.”

Again, Paula turns away from the stove. “What kind of news?”

Molly reaches up and fiddles with her choker necklace as she prepares to spill.

—–

“The name on the order is Paula Fisher. I think it’s a cake?”

The petite woman behind the counter nods and references a sheet sitting beside the register.

“I’ll go get it for you,” she says. “You can have a seat if you’d like.”

Sarah Fisher thanks her and scans the small space. Her legs and back are weary after her long workday, so the 24-year-old blonde takes a seat at a table against the side window. As she sinks onto the hard, wooden chair, her mind goes to the couch in her small apartment. All she wants to do tonight is lie on it, watch a little TV, and go to bed. A dinner party with the whole family sounds like hell. She is sure that her parents will be chirping at her over one thing or another, and she is definitely not in the mood for that tonight. On the other hand, her older brother and his wife are returning from an important trip, and ever since Tim shared with them the news of a pending job offer out-of-town, Sarah has been on-edge, fearing that perhaps the most stable force in the entire family would be leaving King’s Bay. She hopes that he and Claire will come to dinner and report that Chicago simply isn’t for them and that they’ll be staying.

The abrupt jingling of the bells on the door pulls her from her thoughts. She glances up to see a man hastily tugging a ski mask over his face as he enters the shop. His eyes, peering through the holes in the fabric, land upon her.

Sarah’s pulse quickens immediately. Her tense muscles stiffen even more. The man’s hand moves to his belt.

The glint of metal is enough to tell her exactly what he has there.

“I have your—” The voice of the bakery clerk goes from perky to stone-cold in a matter of a few syllables. She freezes behind the counter as the masked man draws his gun.

“Empty the register,” he says in a voice that sounds to Sarah as if he is attempting to make it sound more gravelly than it normally is.

She scans him up and down, drinking in whatever details she can. His jeans are well-worn, and the wide openings at the bottom hang to the bottom of his black tennis shoes; both pant legs are frayed at the back, likely from dragging on the ground. His build is average, leaning toward husky, and his zipped-up black hoodie hugs him a little too snugly. She cannot make out any trace of hair sticking out from the ski cap. A limp — likely empty — hunter green backpack hangs by its straps from his shoulders.

“We… we don’t have much,” the clerk says nervously, still holding the cake.

“Put down the box and empty the register. And don’t try anything — I saw your coworker leave a few minutes ago. I know you’re alone back there.” He aims the gun menacingly at her for a few more endless seconds before swiveling toward Sarah. The barrel’s opening makes alarmingly precise eye contact with her.

“You. Hands up. Get on the floor.”

Slowly she raises her hands. Her purse dangles from her left arm, so she shakes it off. It lands on the linoleum floor.

“Get on the floor,” he repeats, agitated. He throws a nervous look over one shoulder to confirm that no one is entering the shop, then backs slightly toward the door.

Sarah rises from her chair. Thoughts fly wildly through her head. She decides to go for it.

“Please don’t hurt me,” she says as she takes a few steps toward him — and the door. “That cake — it’s for my daughter’s birthday. She has cancer. If you’ll just—”

“Just shut up and you can have your damn cake. Now get down!”

“Please don’t hurt me,” she repeats. A light sob cracks her voice as she lowers herself onto her hands and knees and then presses her body down toward the cold, hard floor.

“Good.” The man gives the gun one more threatening bob in her direction before turning back to the clerk. “Now empty the register. Put it all in here.” He wriggles the backpack off his arms and tosses it at her.

Finally the clerk sets down the cake box. From the floor, Sarah can’t see over the counter, but she hears the thump of the box and the mechanical soundtrack of the register being opened. She knows she only has one shot at this. She is careful not to move her body at all until the exact right moment, but first she confirms that all the robber’s attention is focused on the money being removed from the register.

With one last, deep breath, Sarah pools all her energy into one great burst. She flips from her stomach to her back, swinging her legs out in the process, and nails the robber right in the back of the knees. A stunned, anguished howl rings out through the shop as time slows to a crawl.

—–

The chime of the seatbelt sign rings through the airplane cabin. Tim Fisher quickens his stride down the center aisle of the aircraft as he returns to his seat from the lavatory. With the back of his wife’s head and the empty seat beside her in sight, the plane rocks gently beneath his feet, and he grips the tops of the seats to steady himself.

A bigger burst of turbulence strikes just as he arrives back at their row. He manages to keep his balance as Claire, in the aisle seat, stands to let him squeeze past.

“Thanks,” he says as he takes the center seat again. Leaned against the window is an older man, oblivious to the world around him as he snores gently into his thick gray mustache.

Claire removes the foam-padded headphones that she has been using to listen to the in-flight movie, Jerry Maguire.

“It’s getting a little rocky,” she says. The 31-year-old woman gently touches a hand to her stomach, which is growing more and more rounded each day; though it is still early in her pregnancy, even the small bump is rather noticeable on her slight frame.

“Yeah. Not my favorite part about flying.” Tim swipes his own hand over his sandy blond hair. Now 32, he has noticed it darkening a bit from what it was in his teens and 20s, but its continued lightness contributes to his bright, cheery demeanor. “How’s the movie?”

She shrugs. “You’ve seen it. It’s fine. I’m just antsy to get home.”

“Feeling okay?”

“Yeah. Thank god.” So far, her morning sickness has been consistent in that it actually sticks to the mornings, enabling her to plan her days without too much unexpected anguish.

Tim eyes her carefully for a few seconds. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” The word comes out too quickly to be convincing. She brings the headphones down to rest around her neck, pressing her dark brown hair inward. “I just miss home, that’s all.”

“Well, Chicago could be home soon enough.”

“I know.”

Her tone catches him off-guard. She was peppy and enthusiastic throughout their time in Chicago, taking in the sights and looking at real estate.

“Are you having second thoughts about this move?” he asks.

“It isn’t even officially happening.”

“No, but it could. If the offer comes through…”

“I know.” Claire lets out a small, troubled sigh. “If you decide this job is the right move, then of course I’ll be along for the journey. But your new boss — you think she’ll make a counteroffer, don’t you?”

“Diane? I hope so. She seems to like me. Or at least my work.”

“What’s not to like?” Claire says, a sudden grin bringing a spark to her eye.

Instinctively he smiles back, and it feels as if the plane around them fades away. Over a year into their marriage, it still feels to Tim as if Claire is the only other person in the world sometimes.

He softens his voice as he takes her hand. “Are you not onboard with moving to Chicago, though? If I do get the job? Did you hate it that much from spending one summer there when you were a teenager? I want to know. Really.”

She stares at the seatback in front of her.

“That duplex we saw was pretty cute,” Tim adds. “Not as much house as we could afford in King’s Bay, obviously, but the brick exterior… and the hickory floors…”

“It was great. It was.” She pauses for another moment of contemplation. “I’m just thinking about how much I love King’s Bay, you know? It’s the first place that has ever really been home to me. I’ve moved around so much, between my dad’s place and my mom’s and college and nursing school… I would miss your family so much, too. They feel like my family.”

“They are your family.” He squeezes her hand. “I want you to be open with me. We aren’t doing anything unless we’re both in favor of it. Okay?”

“Okay.” She leans her head against the shoulder of his blue-checked shirt. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says. “We’re in this together.”

Another bout of turbulence rattles the plane. As they bump up and down in their seats, Tim fails to notice the still-troubled expression on his wife’s face as she tries unsuccessfully to force thoughts of Chicago out of her mind.

—–

Four steel blades cut deftly through glittering white.

“Remember: strong cores!” a voice shouts from the distance.

The Eastern-influenced strains of Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade fill the chilly, open air of the King’s Bay Ice Arena. Although the afternoon practice session is busy, many of the skaters and coaches have slowed their work or paused entirely to watch as Jason Fisher and Courtney Chase practice their dramatic long program. At the side of the ice, their coach, Sandy James, clasps her black gloves together as she watches them, her mind performing every push, every turn, every flourish right along with them. Her own body tenses as she sees them preparing for the program’s final lift and hopes that they heed the advice she just called out to them.

The young adults skate down the ice together. Courtney turns to face Jason, and his hand goes to her hip. Sandy watches as they slow ever-so-slightly, a moment of anxiety and preparation, before Jason hoists his raven-haired partner up and over his head. She plants a hand on his shoulder and kicks one leg upward. With Courtney up in the air, Jason rotates around on both feet as they continue to zoom down the ice. He helps her down — Sandy notices a momentary snag in which Courtney has to readjust her hand — and, within seconds, the music is ending and they are striking their final pose.

A smattering of applause from the other skaters and coaches echoes through the arena, before everyone gets back to work. Soon, another skater’s music comes over the speaker system. Red-faced and breathing hard, Jason and Courtney join Sandy at the side of the ice.

“That was a really strong run-through,” she tells them as they chug from their water bottles. “I would even say it’s Regionals-ready.”

Courtney’s cheeks, already pink from exertion, glow a little more. In her black tights and long-sleeved red spandex shirt, the 19-year-old appears both petite and powerful; in spite of her small stature, there is no mistaking that this is an athlete.

“You really think we’re there?” she asks.

“The pieces are all there. I really do think this could be your breakout year, if you deliver a program like that next week,” Sandy says. Once a skater herself, the middle-aged woman now spends her days in heavy coats, breaking down complicated maneuvers step-by-step or calling out crucial reminders from the sidelines. Her friendly personality and straightforward attitude toward training combine to make her something of a second mom to many of her skaters — particularly Jason and Courtney, whom she has been training since they were in elementary school.

“That last lift still felt a little sticky to me,” Jason says as he uses the sleeve of his white t-shirt to wipe his face. The youngest of the Fisher siblings at 19, he can usually be found with a smile on his face, radiating a confident, happy-go-lucky energy.

“Really?” Courtney asks.

Jason looks over at her, and his usual assertiveness seems to wither away. Sandy notes this silently; Courtney is the one person to whom he tends to defer like this, as if he suspects that everything she says or thinks is inherently right. It has always been an element of their dynamic, but over the past year or so, Sandy has noticed it becoming more prominent.

“I dunno,” he says. “The setdown was a little funky.”

Courtney shrugs. “We were tired. We are tired.”

“I saw that little hitch, too,” Sandy adds. “Think you can try one more before we wrap up for the day?”

Jason nods. “I hate leaving practice feeling like I didn’t have something.”

With a quick sigh, Courtney takes another sip of water and sets her bottle back down on the railing. “Okay. Sure.”

“Take it from the end of the side-by-side step sequence,” Sandy tells them as they skate off.

Across the ice, they both turn backwards and link hands as they seamlessly shift back into program mode. They position themselves face-to-face, and Jason’s hand moves to grip Courtney’s hip. He expertly pitches her up into the air, and Courtney’s body locks into her pose as she balances on his shoulder. Sandy watches Jason grimace slightly as he holds her aloft with one arm and turns… once… twice… and then, everything appears to drip into slow-motion.

The side of his thin blade snags on the ice. Sandy draws in a sharp breath, and it sticks in her lungs as Jason’s foot stops cold, but the rest of his body continues hurtling forward. He staggers, attempting to regain his footing, but it is too late.

A scream flies out of Courtney as the couple topples to the ice.

Sandy is still holding her breath as she races over, with Courtney’s anguished sobs audible even over the other skater’s music.

—–

Sarah knows that she cannot hesitate. The robber staggers, hitting the bakery’s counter. With her ears listening for the telltale clatter of the weapon — there it is! — she leaps up and hurls her full weight into his back. With him still caught off-guard, it is simple for her to pin his larger body against the display case.

“The gun,” she calls out in the direction of the clerk, with everything still a blur around her. “Get it if you can.”

The other, smaller woman makes some kind of frantic noises that do not amount to words. But Sarah sees her grab the gun from the countertop.

“The hell is wrong with you?” the masked robber grunts.

“King’s Bay PD,” Sarah says, all traces of the vulnerability from a moment ago vanished from her voice. “You’re under arrest.” She looks up at the clerk, whose wide eyes are afire with fear as her shaky hands hold the gun.

“Now get on the floor,” she orders the robber. He doesn’t move, so she jams a knee into his lower back. “Get on the floor.” As he reluctantly sinks down, Sarah reaches over the counter with one hand. “And give me that.”

The clerk all too willingly passes the gun off to her. Sarah shoves the man down to the linoleum and trains the weapon on him.

“Call 911,” she instructs the clerk, who looks as if she might explode. But she manages to pick up the nearby phone and places the call.

Still holding the gun steady, Sarah places a foot on the man’s back. “You have the right to remain silent…” She quickly rattles off the remainder of the Miranda warning.

“There’s a cop here,” the clerk is saying into the phone. “She has him on the floor.”

“You could’ve just taken your damn cake and gone home to your kid,” the man spits, lifting his head from the ground.

“Shut up and stay down.” She cocks the gun purely for effect. “Oh, and by the way, I don’t have a kid.”

What did you think of this trip down Memory Lane?
Do you remember the early days of Footprints?
Have you ever read the very first episode before?
Talk about it all right here!

Continue to Part 2