John walked to the office outside the far door of the soundstage. He needed a place to put his bag and set up his desk. He opened the door and glanced around the small office. The space included a desk shoved into a corner, two mismatched chairs, and a small window the size of a pillow. The wood paneling gave the place a ‘70s basement feel. Opening the window did nothing to dispel the lingering smell of cigarette smoke.

He put his bag on the desk. Nothing personal, not even a laptop or suitcase in the room. The director hadn’t arrived yet. He hoped it was someone he could work with. He had to believe Tom Melton wouldn’t hire an idiot. Why Tom cared about this B movie, John had no idea. But if he did, then John did.

First thing, John needed coffee and a copy of the rewrites so he could get to work on the shooting schedule and the call sheets. The set was too quiet. Even for this early in the morning. He missed the buzz and hum of a busy film set. Even when he was playing “shirtless werewolf on the left,” a film set was his favorite place to be. He walked out of the office and back to the soundstage. Surely, he could find someone who could get him a copy of the new script.

“Hey,” a voice called. “Can I get your help with something?”

A woman, red hair piled on top of her head with dark circles under her eyes, walked over to him. How rough was this shoot? The woman looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her. Maybe we worked on a TV show together?

“Where can I get a copy of the new script? I need to prepare the shooting schedule.”

“You’re the AD?” The woman looked him up and down. “I thought you were one of the vampire minions.”

John gazed up at the tall roof of the soundstage. “Yup, I’m the AD.”

“How much experience do you have?”

“I’ll be fine.” John put his hands on his hips. He didn’t appreciate the condescending suggestion that he wasn’t up to the task, and he definitely didn’t have time for it. He shifted gears. “Have you met the new director?”

“Yes,” she said, speaking slowly, as if worried about his intelligence. “But I need your help with something else.”

“How are they?” Directors tended fall into two categories—pretentious film school graduates or frat-boy types who slept with the lead actress. Generally, he despised both. Guiltily, he thought of Anna. She was probably great on a set. No nonsense, clear about how she wanted things to go, not wasting everyone’s time with ego-driven demands. If only she could carry on a conversation like a normal human without driving me up the wall, he thought before remembering he wasn’t supposed to think about her anymore.