Wrong Turn
The heat hit first, before anything else—before the smell of cut grass and diesel from the generator trucks, before the low murmur of the crew dragging cables through red dirt. It wrapped around Dunk's shoulders like a wet towel the moment he stepped out of the van, and he laughed under his breath, because of course the universe had decided that today, of all days, the sun would be merciless.
"Welcome to paradise," Pond said beside him, squinting up at the sky through his sunglasses. "Population: us, several thousand mosquitoes, and one very grumpy Phuwin."
"I heard that," came a flat voice from a few feet away.
Phuwin walked past them toward the wardrobe tent, a bottle of water already sweating in his hand, his expression unreadable behind a pair of aviators. He hadn't slept well—Dunk could tell by the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he moved like every step cost him something. But Dunk also knew better than to mention it. Phuwin didn't like being noticed when he was tired. He liked even less being asked about it.
"Good morning to you too, sunshine," Dunk called after him, grinning.
Phuwin didn't turn around. He just lifted a hand and waved it dismissively over his…
