Reuben Hemslock, as it turned out, is not his real name. They tell me that it is Paul Grossman, and that two years ago, eighteen women, including a few ex-girlfriends, stepped forward to accuse him of longstanding abuse. He has since taken a two years’ sabbatical to distance himself from the scandal; this show will mark his return.

“Of course it turns my stomach,” the redhead says. “But this is my paycheck. I’ve got three kids. I’m not going to risk my job for anything. Besides, I’m heading home when they arrive. Hemslock wants a skeleton crew, which is real bullshit because they’re keeping the chefs.”

Goatee takes a much more relaxed stance regarding Hemslock. He’s drinking again, this time from a bottle of Red Horse, a local beer he must have brought from the city. “You get a lot of enemies when you’re famous,” he explains, after a long pull. His eyes are slightly unfocused. His fingers shake with the natural tremors of an unrepentant alcoholic. “That’s what happened to Hemslock. These women want to make money off knowing him. Their tell-all books, talk show slots. But people have shit memories; dangle some new celebrity bait, and they’ll forget the scandals soon enough. They’ll forget this one, too.”

“What are their names?” I ask.

“Beats me. I think one’s an Audrey and maybe there’s a Jill? Main girlfriend is Gail Merkan. D-list actor.”

“Hey, wait,” Straw Hat says. “Weren’t there rumors that Gail Merkan was visiting Cebu or something? Isn’t that the next island—”

“That’s all rumors. Tabloids getting a slow news day, trying to bait us into making a statement.”

“If these women are making accusations for the fame,” I ask, “then why doesn’t anyone remember their names?”

Goatee scowls at me. “Yeah well, he makes money, and that’s what we’re here for. I’ve worked with him on other projects. He’s fine. No idea what those bitches are going on about.”

“You’ll probably like Chase better,” Melissa says cheerfully. “He’s a celebrity, too. Sort of.”

“Chase?”

“Leo Gries’s son. Content creator or social media influencer or whatever. He’s pretty popular.” Melissa types on her phone then, grinning, shows me a video of a good-looking, shirtless boy wearing skimpy shorts and a plastic horse’s head, tap dancing to music. “He got almost twenty million views from this alone and literally put “I Need a Hero” back on the billboard charts. He got some publicity for the horse head, but he’s such a big goofball that it’s hard not to like him.”

I don’t claim to understand the logic behind the video’s popularity, but Askal seems to enjoy it, letting out staccato yips in time to the beat.

I hope Goatee is right, and that many of the crew will leave once shooting starts. There are far too many strangers on this island.

Two weeks before filming officially begins, a team of scientists explores the cave. I sit on a nearby rock and watch as they disappear inside. Askal seats all fifteen pounds of himself on my lap and barks. “They’ll be all right,” I tell him.