The tour guide is the first to notice I’m unwell. He hands me a fresh water bottle from the cooler then folds himself back into the front passenger seat to watch. Condensation drips down the sides, leaving washed islands in the fine dust covering the van floor. The bottle has no label and easily crumples as I squeeze the plastic between my fingers; probably filled up from a local tap and resealed, like the travel blogs all warn. Still, I twist the cap off, not wanting to offend Prak, who has kind eyes and seems to be tracking the sweat beads rolling off my chin.