“It’s fine,” I say, though it isn’t. “Getting used to the boots.”
He crouches in front of me, ignoring my protest. “Boots shouldn’t hurt. Take it off.”
The cameras film. Elliott hovers nearby, excited at capturing wilderness adversity. I force a strained expression through gritted teeth, playing up the drama for the audience. “This is part of the adventure, right?” I say as I unlace my right boot, wincing as it pulls against tender skin.
Finn helps me remove the boot, then the sock. Three angry blisters have formed—one on my heel, one on the side of my foot, and another at the base of my big toe. All have burst, leaving raw, weeping skin.
“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” Finn asks, his voice low enough that the microphones won’t catch it.
“Didn’t seem important.”
He shakes his head, reaching for his pack. “Suffering isn’t heroic, it’s foolish.” From his first aid kit, he produces antiseptic wipes, ointment, and moleskin. His hands are gentle as he cleans the wounds. The antiseptic stings, but I bite my lip to keep quiet.
And then the forest around me changes. The pine scent sharpens, the bird calls shift, and I’m not in Alaska anymore. I’m ten years old, sitting on a porch step, my small feet in mygrandmother’s lap. My soles are raw and blistered from following her through mountain meadows all day, basket in hand, collecting herbs and roots for her remedies. The humid Tennessee air, thick with the smell of honeysuckle and damp earth, feels a world away from this crisp Alaskan air.
“Always tell me when your feet hurt,niña,” she says, her voice a low, comforting rumble as she applies a strong-smelling, dark green salve to my blisters. “The plants will still be there tomorrow.” Her hands are dark and callused from decades of digging in the earth, her knuckles gnarled, yet her touch remains gentle as she bandages my feet with soft strips of old cotton. The afternoon sun filters through the heavy leaves of the grapevines trellised over the porch, casting dappled shadows across the worn, grey floorboards.
“Manzanillafor inflammation,” she says, her accent wrapping around the Spanish word for chamomile like a familiar hug. “Calendulafor healing. Always respect the plants that heal you, Magdalena. They give their life for your comfort.” I nod, breathing in the herbal scent that clings to her clothes, a mix of dried herbs, wood smoke, and the faint, sweet smell of the pipe tobacco she sometimes smoked in the evenings.
“Lena?” Finn’s voice pulls me back to the present. His eyes are on my face, concerned. I’ve gone still, my breath caught in my throat.
“Sorry,” I say, blinking away the memory, the shift back to the sharp Alaskan air almost dizzying. “It hurts.”
He regards me longer than necessary, then returns to his task. “These boots don’t fit properly. The Second Chance selection isn’t perfect. We should have spent more time breaking them in.”
“Not your fault,” I say. The words come without thought, but I mean them. He tried to help me prepare. I rushed through the shopping trip.
“We’ll wrap them for now,” he says, carefully applying moleskin to each blister. “At camp tonight, we’ll air them out.”
He glances up. “You’ll want to change your socks more often going forward—midday at least. You can rinse a pair in the creek and let them dry overnight. Rotate through them.”
I nod, watching his hands work. They differ from my grandmother’s—larger, paler, but equally capable. I’m trapped between past and present—the girl who learned plant names in two languages, and the woman I became by burying her.
Elliott edges closer, camera rolling.
“All part of the experience, right?” I say with a camera-ready expression. “No pain, no gain.”
Finn’s mouth tightens, his gaze dipping for a beat—disappointment, maybe, or something close—but he says nothing. He finishes securing the moleskin, then pulls a clean pair of socks from his pack.
“Wear these,” he says. “They’re extras. Thicker. Will help with the pressure points.”
“Won’t you need them?”
“I’ve hiked these trails for twenty years. I came prepared.” He hands them over. “Take them.”
The socks are warm from his pack and soft, despite their practical nature. I pull off both boots, strip the damp socks from my feet, and replace them with his. They’re a little big, but thick and comforting. I lace my boots loosely.
“Better?” he asks as I stand to test it.
It is. The thick socks cushion, and the moleskin protects the raw skin.
“Much. Thank you.”
He nods once, then turns to the group. “Ten more minutes, then we move out. Five miles to lunch.”
Five miles. Yesterday, that distance would have seemedimpossible. Today, despite the blisters and muscle aches, I am determined. I can do this.
As we hike, I walk behind Finn, observing how he navigates the trail. In my head, my grandmother’s voice joins his explanations of the landscape.Manzanilla. Calendula.Respect the plants that heal you.
