Andy glanced to his left, where Jonathan Roth’s production assistant Libby sat. Her head hung slightly—the short blond strands of her pixie cut hanging just above her light-blue eyes—and she looked as though she may vomit at any moment. Andy, who had once locked himself in his room for three days because his dad saw a garter snake in the backyard, whispered, “I’m terrified of snakes too.” From Andy’s experience, fear loved company.

Libby scrunched her eyebrows and said, “Oh, no, I’m fine with snakes. I’m just not feeling all that well.” She bit her bottom lip and took a hard swallow.

“Altitude sickness,” Andy said, wondering why it took him so long to notice.

“What?”

“I think you have altitude sickness.” At twelve thousand feet, Andy was surprised more of them hadn’t been affected.

Andy, of course, had taken precautions, popping a couple of Diamox, a medicine that helped alleviate the symptoms of altitude sickness—pounding headache, nausea, dizziness, and shortness of breath—before they’d boarded the flight in Miami. The Diamox was one of thirty different medicines Andy had packed in what the TSA agent at Chicago O’Hare had dubbed “more pharmacy than suitcase.”

Andy had brought two pills with him to take at some point during dinner, and he patted the circular outlines of the small pills in his front pocket. After a moment’s hesitation, he slipped them out of his pocket and placed them in front of Libby.

“Take these,” he whispered. “They’ll make you feel better.” He pulled over one of three pitchers of lemon water set out by the hotel and filled a glass. “Drink all of this.”

Staying hydrated was the best way to combat altitude sickness. Since landing, Andy had drunk all three thirty-two-ounce bottles of water from the minibar.

Libby didn’t question what the pills were, tossing them into her mouth and slugging back the entire glass of water.

“Good, now drink another full gla—”

“Hey!” snapped Holland.

Andy glanced up. A picture of a scorpion was now on the screen, but everyone’s eyes were trained on him.

Holland glared at him. “You think I’m doing this for my own amusement? This is bloody serious.”

Andy felt his cheeks go flush to the point he thought they might burst. If getting singled out wasn’t bad enough, Andy turned and saw both Sean and Darnell had their cameras trained on him, documenting his embarrassment for possibly millions of people on Netflix or Amazon or wherever to someday enjoy.

But possibly worst of all, was Jonathan Roth at the head of the table and Farah Karim directly across from him, both wearing the same look of annoyance.

“Oh, sorry, sir,” Andy mumbled. “I, uh, yeah, sorry, please continue.”

If teleportation existed, Andy would have gone to the moon.

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