It’s the scorching hot end of June, 2017. I’m in Mykonos, Greece, a daytime tourist trap that lights up as soon as it gets dark. I step out of my hotel room for the first time in two days, my tan drained from the bronchitis I may, or may not, have. My body certainly feels depleted, but I’m not sure how much I trust my muddled translation of the hotel doctor’s diagnosis. Three days earlier, I’d lain on the sharp-cornered sheets of my room’s smaller-than-twin-size bed, fidgeting in a futile attempt to evade my fever. There was a knock on the door and the most barrel-chested man I’d ever seen ducked to enter my room, thermometer grasped in an unnaturally large hand. The verdict came down with the scribbling of his gavel-like hand on a prescription pad: I would be quarantined in my room until I had recovered, suspended from my position as production assistant, and banned from the beachfront film set. A few times, I ventured out into the midday silence, my sandals slapping pleasantly against the hotel’s marble floors like I imagined the waves must lap the shore in the world outside my room. I would quickly become dizzy and turn around before I made it much past the hotel entrance, re...