The group trudged through the sand, exhausted, miserable, and soaked from the crash. Their clothes clung to them, the salty breeze making everything worse. No one spoke—they were too tired.

Well… except for Michael.

“Ughhh! I hate this!” Michael groaned, flailing his arms. “I’m covered in sand! It’s in my shoes! It’s in my shirt! It’s in places sand should never be!”

Yaz sighed. “Michael—”

“No, you don’t understand! I feel icky! My hair’s all gross, I taste salt every time I breathe, and—ugh!” He dramatically shook his arms. “Why is the ocean so sticky?!”

Kenji groaned. “Dude, we crash-landed. We almost died. Maybe save the complaints?”

“But I feel disgusting!” Michael whined. “I need a shower. A bed. A hairbrush—”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Yaz grumbled.

“No! Not when I’m suffering!” Michael huffed, then gagged. “And why do I smell like fish?!”

Sammy stifled a laugh. “You did faceplant into the ocean.”

Michael groaned dramatically. “This is the worst day of my life.”

Ben, still dragging his feet, deadpanned, “Worse than being chased by dinosaurs?”

Michael hesitated. Then: “…It’s close!”