THERESA: Oh my God! Damn it, Peter, wake up! It's snowing! What are we going to do?

PETER: Chill, baby. Come back to bed. It never snows here.

THERESA: No? What do you call the stuff bending the boughs out there? Solid white rain?

PETER: Maybe sometimes we get a couple of inches. But don't sweat it. It'll be gone by noon.

THERESA: A couple of inches? Guess again, nature boy. It's three feet now and still counting. Get your butt out of bed and look.

PETER: Okay, okay. Shit, it's cold. Did you let the wood stove go out? Where's my pants?

THERESA: Your pants are on the floor where you dropped them last night. And I didn't 'let the stove go out'. We ran out of wood and the woodshed is buried under the avalanche out there.

PETER: Come on Theresa, you're exaggerat -- Jeez, it is kind of deep. There's even icicles, little ones hanging off the tree branches and bigger ones off the porch. You know, when I was kid we used to break off the icicles and suck on 'em. Maybe the baby would like...

THERESA: Don't open the damn door. It's freezing. We've got to do something. What are we going to do? Come on Peter, don't just stand there looking outside. Help me with this.

PETER: Nothing, baby. Just relax. We cuddle up in bed, stay warm, maybe get working on a little brother for Moonflower.

THERESA: No way, lover boy! We've got to warm this place up. It's too cold for the baby. First, you go out there, get some wood and we stoke up the fire. Then we've got to figure out how to get the three of us back to civilization.

PETER: Sure sweetie. As soon as it stops snowing ... hey, what are you doing with my jeans?

THERESA: Fuel. For the fire.

PETER: Shit, bitch. Give me those. Burn your own damn clothes if you want to burn something. Or dig out your own damn wood. You believe in equality, right?

THERESA: This is your gig, nature boy. A pristine paradise, you said. Clean air and water. Best place in the world to bring up baby. So I listen to you and here I am, marooned on the top of a damn mountain with an eight-month-old baby, two tins of strained apricots, half a pizza, a six-pack of beer and two bags of bud.

PETER: Groceries is your department, mother Theresa.

THERESA: So speaks the male chauvinist oink, oink ... No, Peter, don't go. I'm sorry. I'm just scared. For us and the baby. What if we can't get out in time?

PETER: Nothing. It'll be okay. We'll manage. We can do it. I'll go get wood and then see if I can get old Ruthie going and we'll roll right into town.

THERESA: That car? That 20-year-old junker. Peter, even if you could get it to start, we can't go down the road in that. That road will be like a toboggan run. And, damn it, the tires got no tread at all. We never bought new ones. What are we going to ... oh God! Peter!

PETER: It's okay. It's just the lights. Maybe they'll come back on.

THERESA: Do we have any candles?