“Told you.”
“Your mother taught you about plants?”
His face changes. “Some. But mostly it was May. She’s theclosest thing to a doctor in Port Promise. Takes care of everyone with her herbs and salves.”
The simple statement says volumes about their community. I want to ask more, to learn about this place where wilderness knowledge passes from person to person out of necessity, but his expression tells me to leave it for now.
“Thank you,” I say. “For helping with my feet. And for not filming it for the show.”
He appears surprised. “Some things aren’t for cameras.”
As I walk back to my tent, it strikes me—this is the most honest conversation I’ve had in years. No performance, no agenda, only two people talking in the darkness. My grandmother would have liked Finn, I think. They share the same competence, the same respect for the natural world, the same directness. The thought hits like a fist in my chest—this ache for a life I threw away.
In my tent, I remove the three bottles of skincare products from their protective wrap. The ritual comforts me—cleanse, apply serum, moisturize. Each step connects me to the controlled world I’ve left behind. But as I settle into my sleeping bag, my grandmother’s voice speaks of plants and healing and respect. And I don’t silence the memory.
Chapter Six
FINN
The rain starts at dawn,fat drops drumming against my tent. Not unexpected for early summer in the Alaskan mountains. I’ve studied the weather patterns enough to know the signs—the drop in temperature, the wind shift, the way the clouds stacked up over the western peaks last night. I pull on my rain gear before stepping outside to assess our situation. The campsite is a slick mess—everything soaked within minutes.
Elliott emerges from his tent, rain pelting his inadequate jacket. “Is this going to be a problem?”
“Depends on how long it lasts,” I say, assessing the heavy clouds. “Seems settled in.”
“We’re scheduled to film at the ridge overlook today. Can we still make that work?”
I nod. “We can reach it. Whether you’ll make out anything through this is another question.”
Slowly, the rest of the crew emerge, hunched against the rain, huddled together under a hastily erected tarp. No sign of Lena yet.
“Someone should check on our star,” Elliott says, directing his attention to her tent.
I trudge across the soggy ground and call her name outside the tent flap. No response. I try again, louder.
“I’m awake,” she finally answers, her voice rough with sleep. “Is it raining?”
“Has been for hours,” I say. “We need to break camp soon if we’re making the ridge today.”
A rustle of movement, then her head appears through the tent opening. Her hair sticks out in several directions, her eyes puffy. When she registers the downpour, her expression sinks. “Seriously?”
“Welcome to Alaska,” I say. “Breakfast in fifteen minutes.”
No campfire this morning. We huddle under tarps, eating cold protein bars and passing around a water bottle. Lena sits silent, wrapped in her rain jacket, looking miserable but making no complaints. That surprises me. I’d expected dramatic protests about the weather, filming conditions, anything. Instead, she stares straight ahead, shoulders tight.
“We’ll reach a more sheltered area by midday,” I say as we pack up the soaked tents. “The forest is thicker there. Less exposed to the elements.”
Elliott approaches with his clipboard sealed inside a plastic bag. “Change of plans. We want to capture Lena gathering edible plants in the clearing west of here before heading to the ridge.”
“In this weather?” I indicate the driving rain.
“Perfect authenticity,” Elliott says. “Survival skills in adverse conditions.”
Lena joins us, her pack secured, rain jacket zipped to her chin. “What’s the plan?”
“We’ll start with the western field,” Elliott says. “Need footage of you gathering plants.”
“In a monsoon?”
