With tents established, I organize the cooking area while teaching Lena basic campcraft. Her city instincts work against her at every turn—reaching for water without filtering it, stowing food in her tent, wandering off without telling anyone where she’s going.
“Bears?” she repeats when I explain proper food storage. “Like, actual bears might come into our camp?”
“They might. That’s why we hang food away from the sleeping area.” She observes with growing concern as I demonstrate the proper technique for creating a bear hang, tossing a rope over a high branch. She asks what happens if a bear ignores the precautions.
“Make noise. Appear big. Stand your ground. They usually avoid people.” She still looks terrified.
As darkness falls, we gather around the camp stove for a simple meal of dehydrated stew. The crew shares stories of other shoots in remote locations, their voices carrying in thestillness of the mountain evening. Lena says little, observing the sky as stars appear one by one.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” I say, following her line of sight. “No light pollution up here.”
“I’ve never witnessed so many stars,” she admits. “In LA, you’re lucky to find a dozen.”
“Wait until the moon sets. It gets even better.”
She pulls her jacket tighter against the evening chill. “How cold does it get at night?”
“This time of year? Low forties, perhaps high thirties.”
“That’s freezing.”
“That’s summer in the mountains. Your sleeping bag is rated for much colder. You’ll be fine.”
As the others drift toward their tents, I spot Lena by the cooking area, eyes fixed on the darkness beyond our camp. “Everything okay?” I ask.
She startles slightly. “Just taking it all in.” I don’t believe her for a second. “The bathroom is that way,” I say, pointing to a designated spot at the edge of camp. “Take a headlamp. Make noise. You’ll be fine.”
Relief crosses her face. “Thanks.”
When she returns from her bathroom visit, I expect her to head straight to her tent. Instead, she stops near mine, hesitating.
“Something else?”
“What happens if I need to ... you know ... during the night?”
“Same rules apply. Be smart about it.” She nods but still doesn’t move. “Lena. You climbed a mountain today. You can handle going to the bathroom in the dark.”
“Right. Of course.” She squares her shoulders. “Goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight.” I observe her duck into her tent, zipping itsecurely behind her. Then I check the bear hang one last time before retiring to my shelter.
Sleep comes easily after the day’s exertion, but in the middle of the night, a sound pulls me from deep rest. Shuffling, then a zipper. Then soft footsteps padding across our campsite. I peek out from my tent. By moonlight, I can make out Lena’s silhouette as she creeps toward a flat boulder at the edge of camp. She sits down, pulls something from her pocket, and tilts her face toward the moon’s faint light. It takes me a second, but yes—she’s applying face cream. Maybe she’s reading instructions. Or maybe the moonlight is part of the magic. Who knows.
But something about the ritual gives me pause. The careful application, the methodical movements. Not vanity. It had to be about control, some small piece of her old routine.
As she finishes and makes her way back to her tent, I lie awake thinking about the woman behind the performance. The one who knows scientific names of berries but packs a satin pillowcase. Who complains about every hardship but refuses to quit. Who applies cream by moonlight when she thinks no one is observing.
There is more to Lena Kensington than I’ve given her credit for. I’m just not sure what it is yet.
Chapter Five
LENA
A sharp twingein my heel wakes me before dawn. My eyes open to darkness, the unfamiliar weight of my sleeping bag heavy across my body. For a disorienting moment, I forget where I am. Then it hits me—the thin sleeping pad, the Alaskan wilderness hundreds of miles from civilization, and my feet already screaming about another day of hiking.
I’ve never heard such sounds at daybreak. The forest stirs with life—birds call in patterns I can’t name. Small creatures rustle through underbrush, wind whispers through pine needles. No traffic noise. No phones chiming with notifications. No assistants knocking with coffee and schedule updates. The profound quiet is alien, almost unnervingly so, though a tiny part of me whispers it might also be peaceful.
Movement outside tells me the crew is awake. A pot clangs against metal, voices whisper, boots crunch on dirt. I force myself to sit up, every joint protesting. This is day two. Only a lifetime of wilderness torture to go.
