Despite everything—the rain, the injury, the change of plans—I appreciate this version of Lena. No performance, no calculated responses for the camera. A woman facing down the hard realities thrown at her.
Outside, darkness falls under the heavy clouds. The temperature drops, wind picking up to rattle the cabin’s single window. Inside, the woodstove provides a bubble of warmth and light.
Elliott approaches with his ever-present clipboard. “We should discuss tomorrow’s revised schedule.”
“Tomorrow depends on the weather,” I say. “And her ankle.”
“We can work around both,” he insists. “If the rain stops, we film her recovery narrative. If not, we capture the challenge of waiting out a storm. Either way, we need to make progress.”
Lena says nothing, turning the empty stew bowl in her hands, her face drawn with fatigue.
“We’ll assess in the morning,” I say. “For now, everyone should rest.”
Figuring out sleeping arrangements in the small cabin wasa puzzle. The crew spreads their sleeping bags across the floor in a tight formation. I insist Lena keep the bench, padding it with extra clothing to create a makeshift bed. I will take the floor nearby, within reach, if she needs help during the night.
As the others settle down, complaints about hard floors and cramped quarters filling the cabin, I step outside to check the weather one last time. The rain has stopped, but heavy clouds promise more to come. The air smells of wet earth and pine, crisp with dropping temperatures.
When I return, most of the crew has fallen asleep, exhaustion overcoming discomfort. Lena lies awake on her bench, looking at the low ceiling.
“How’s the ankle?” I ask, my voice low as I settle into my sleeping bag.
“Throbbing,” she admits. “But better than earlier.”
“The cold compress helped. We’ll try another in the morning.”
She’s quiet for a beat, then exhales. “I didn’t expect to actually get hurt. Injury wasn’t even on my radar.” She glances at the ceiling, then back at me. “In Hollywood, everything’s staged. Controlled. If someone’s bleeding, there’s a medic off camera.” She touches her hair, limp and tangled from the day. “I knew this wouldn’t be glamorous. I didn’t realize how real it would get.” Her eyes sweep over the cabin, confirming the crew is asleep before she leans closer. “You can’t tell anyone this,” she whispers, “but none of this is real. The blonde hair, the perfect skin. Hollywood magic.”
That catches me off guard. “What do you mean?”
“My real name is Magdalena Reyes-Johnson. My grandmother Socorro taught me about plants—she was my dad’s mother. My mom was raised to be a Southern belle, the kind of girl who made her debut in a white dress and pearls. Then she fell in love with a Mexican mechanic and got disowned before I was born.” She gives a small, tired laugh. “Thegranddaughter of a Mississippi debutante and a Mexican immigrant doesn’t sell as many movie tickets as blonde, blue-eyed Lena Kensington.”
The revelation hangs between us in the quiet cabin. I see her differently now, catching traces of the woman she describes beneath the carefully constructed image.
“Magdalena suits you better,” I say, my voice low. “Thank you for telling me.”
She nods, looking both relieved and vulnerable. “Get some sleep,” I add. “Things often look better in the morning.”
“Even in Alaska?”
“Especially in Alaska.”
She closes her eyes, pulling my borrowed jacket tighter around her shoulders. Within minutes, her breathing deepens into sleep. I remain awake longer, listening to the cabin sounds—creaking wood, soft snores, the occasional pop from the dying fire in the stove.
My thoughts keep returning to the moment at the ravine edge, her hand gripping mine, fear flickering in her eyes—raw, unguarded, and real. In that instant, all the Hollywood polish had fallen away. We were simply two people, one falling, one catching. Raw and real.
Through the cabin’s single window, darkness presses against the glass. The rain has stopped, but clouds still block the stars. Tomorrow will bring challenges of its own—wet trails, slippery footing, and once the sun dries things out, the mosquitoes will return with a vengeance. Alaska’s summer residents always make their presence known after a good rain.
I add another log to the stove and allow myself to sleep.
Chapter Seven
FINN
I wakebefore dawn in the cramped Forest Service cabin and stoke the small woodstove that barely kept us warm through the night. Through the single window, patches of blue push through thinning clouds. Yesterday’s rain has passed, but the trail ahead will be wet and rough—mud, loose rock, and miles of it. Not great for a sprained ankle.
While the others sleep on the wooden floor around me, I slip out to scout the area around the cabin, searching for what I need. The streambed nearby has a stand of willows, their branches bending in the light breeze.
When I return, Lena is still asleep on the narrow bench where we made her bed. She looks better than yesterday—less like a drowned rat, not shaking from the cold anymore after that fall at the ravine.
