I crawl out of my sleeping bag and pull on yesterday’s clothes, hating how worn they are. Dressing in the cramped tent is like performing contortions in a phone booth, but Imanage. I brush my tangled hair and secure it in a ponytail, then dig through my small bag of allowed toiletries for tinted sunscreen. Without a mirror, I apply by feel, hoping I didn’t smear it on like a toddler with finger paint.
When I emerge from my tent, the camp is bustling with activity. The crew huddles around a small stove where water boils for coffee. Elliott reviews notes with the camera operators.
And Finn watches from a nearby rock, already dressed. His face gives nothing away, but the way he looks at me makes me wonder if he heard anything last night.
“Morning,” I say, attempting cheerful but sounding groggy.
He nods, then holds out a steaming mug of coffee. “Black. Strong enough to wake the dead.”
I cross the campsite for the cup. It hits me again—how does he always know what I need before I do?“Thanks.”
“Sleep, okay?” he asks.
“Like a rock,” I say, sipping the strong coffee. “A very uncomfortable, cold rock with pine roots jabbing my spine all night.”
“It was a toasty fifty degrees.”
“Like I said. Cold.”
His mouth almost curves into amusement. “We break camp in thirty. Need to cover ground before the afternoon heat.”
The thought of putting my boots back on and shouldering that pack makes me want to retreat to my tent. Instead, I nod, drinking my coffee and trying to convince my body it wants to move today.
“Your night cream routine work out okay?” Finn says, not meeting my eyes.
I nearly choke on my coffee. “You sawthat?”
He shrugs. “Hard to miss someone wandering around camp at two in the morning.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Force of habit.”
“Must be some powerful stuff to be worth hauling up a mountain.”
I can’t tell if he’s mocking me. “My skin is my livelihood.”
He looks up, taking his time as his attention settles on my face. “Seems to work.”
Before I can respond, Elliott calls everyone together for a pre-departure briefing. I set my half-finished coffee aside, not sure how to take Finn’s comment. He states observations as plain facts, without the layers of meaning I’m used to decoding. In Hollywood, compliments always come with hidden agendas. Out here, perhaps words are just words.
Breaking camp is a rush of activity—collapsing tents, packing gear, filling water bottles. Finn moves like he was born to this, quick and sure. I fumble with my tent until he appears beside me, helping me roll it properly. “Tuck the poles in the middle,” he says, demonstrating. “Makes for better weight distribution.”
“Thanks,” I say, observing so I can do it myself next time.
When everything is packed and the campsite restored, we set off. Today’s route will take us higher into the mountains, following a ridge trail toward what the maps call Blackwater Basin. The morning air still carries a chill, but the rising sun promises heat.
The first hour passes well enough. My body, though sore, finds a rhythm with the trail. My pack is more familiar now. Finn sets a pace that challenges without overwhelming us, stopping to point out landmarks or interesting plants.
“Cow parsnip,” he says, showing a large-leafed plant with white flowers. “Native. Edible if you know how to prepare it.”
“Heracleum maximum,” I say without thinking, then regret it when his eyebrows rise. And a little flickerof something—pride?ridiculous—warms me that the name came so easily. “I think that’s what it’s called.”
“You studied botany?”
“Picked things up here and there,” I say, quickening my pace to avoid more questions.
By mid-morning, what started as mild discomfort in my heel has become real pain. Each step sends jolts up my leg, and I alter my walking to compensate. Finn notices and calls for an early break at a small clearing.
“Let me look at your foot,” he says as I sit on a fallen log.
