FADE IN: EXT. EASTSIDE OPEN MARKET, PARK'S TRUCK, AUSTIN, 7:48 AM Before the market opens. Before the crowd. Before the noise. The Eastside Open Market is a permanent outdoor hub on a converted lot east of the highway, ringed by food trucks on three sides and a Saturday farmer's market on the fourth. Picnic tables. String lights not yet lit. The smell of commissary trucks that arrived at five and have been heating up since. The corner spot is empty. It catches light from two directions at this hour. PARK'S is parked twelve feet to the left of it. The truck is painted the color of old jade, the sign older than the paint, faded at the edges in a way that communicates six years of Austin sun without apology. The service window is open. Nobody inside yet. Then somebody inside. JIN PARK (34) emerges from the back of the truck carrying two prep containers, one nested inside the other, her apron already tied, her hair back, her face entirely focused on the space between the door and the counter. She is compact and precise, the kind of person whose movements don't waste fractions of inches. She sets both containers at exact positions on the counter. Not approximately. Exactly. She opens the first container. Checks the mise en place with two fingers: banchan portions, each in its white ceramic ramekin, stacked in fours. She counts. She recounts. She does not count again. 1