“You need to stop constantly sticking your foot in your mouth, you know that?” the woman says, not caring for tact. She takes Panera Lady’s arm and steers her away. She returns later to apologize, though I am mostly amused. Panera Lady isn’t the first to assume that Filipinos don’t understand English, and she’s unlikely to be the last.

The nicer lady’s name is Melissa, and she wears her hair in a style she calls an undercut, bleached pink at the roots but gradually blending to purple at the tips. She’s got a tattoo of something called a roomba on her bicep—a private inside joke, she says, between her and her girlfriend. She’s also a PA—a production assistant—a fancier name, she admits, for a glorified unpaid intern. She’s only older than me by two years, and I like her best out of everyone so far. “But they pay me for being here,” I point out. “And I do a lot less than you.”

She chuckles. “That’s not how it works in Hollywood—or a lot of other places in America. There’re a lot of us desperate for a chance to break into the industry, and they know we won’t complain. They pay us in connections, in introductions to bigger names who can poach us for positions with actual salaries. I live with my folks, so I don’t need to pay rent. I’m lucky. I know people who’d be better at the work than me but can’t afford the job.”

It is a strange thing to say, to afford a job.

Melissa bends down and pets Askal, who likes the attention, his tongue lolling out as she scratches behind his ears. “What’s your deal? The scuttlebutt is that you’re the island whisperer. That you’re one person the island won’t curse.”

“The island won’t harm the people living around the area.”

“But the others don’t come here even so. Why do you?”

I stare in the direction of the cave. “I was five the first time I came here,” I say. “’Tay brought me.”

“’Tay?”

“Tatay.”

“That means dad, right? So this was back when he wasn’t ill?”

I nod. “You don’t think about whether or not you should be afraid of this place when you’ve lived around here your whole life. Respect is key. But most foreigners don’t have that for us.”

Melissa winces. “Well, that’s true enough. Is he doing all right, your dad? Is someone looking after him while you’re here?”

I think again about my contract, the quiet way ’Tay breathes in and out. I want to stay on Kisapmata, but money and ’Tay are not the reasons I do. “He’ll be okay.”

Later, Goatee tells me more about showrunners. They pitch ideas to network executives in America. If the latter likes it, they receive hefty budgets for pre-fab houses and generators among other expenses.

“They’re calling this show The Curse of the Godseye,” he shares, offering me a cup of coffee. Melissa said the food’s free, and the caffeine boosts are unlimited. “Or maybe just Godseye; we’re still deciding. Either should be catchy. Ever watched any ghost hunting shows before? You know—intrepid spirit investigators staying in haunted places and screaming at whatever’s there to scream back?” Goatee doesn’t take coffee. He’s got another bottle of beer on hand, though I’ve already seen him drink four today.