I used the ten-minute break to smoke another cigarette, the acrid bite of the cheap tobacco a welcome sharpness against the lingering anxiety. I saw Two-bit strolling towards me, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his threadbare jacket.
"Boss man," he greeted, jabbing me playfully—a little too hard—in the side with his elbow.
"Stop that, man," I managed, fighting the urge to rub the sore spot.
He finally stopped and looked around, his eyes sweeping over the massive, busy building—a former warehouse now crammed with sets, lights, and a nervous army of crew. "Damn, you really putting that extra work in," he whistled, the sound low and appreciative.
"It's all Big Mom, not me," I said, puffing a cloud of smoke from my mouth that momentarily obscured the midday sun.
