If I had written Dune, most of it would have concerned Paul Atreides haunting the frozen food sections of the supermarkets of Arakeen. Handling bags of peas and tubs of ice cream; anything that would give him a feeling of blessed cold.
Due to a natural reticence, he would try not to spend too much time in any one supermarket, and he is in the course of mapping the quickest routes between frozen food cabinets. He is a furtive moth that flutters from cold to cold.
Frank Herbert’s books as they exist are overly concerned with the big picture of interplanetary intrigue and conflict. My take would concentrate upon the minutiae of the pizza packaging of Arrakis, the different designs of cold cabinet: do they have sliding doors or perhaps iris portals?
Under the flickering light panels of a shabby mini-mart, he would encounter the Fremen girl with her strange blue-in-blue eyes: “what are the ready meals like on the world you come from?”