“He’s heading for the rapids,” Elliott shouts.
“I can see that,” I growl, searching for a spot to intercept him.
Carlos seems to realize the danger he’s in. He releases the case, letting it dangle from the strap around his neck, and attempts to swim toward shore. But the current is too strong, pulling him toward a section of rapids thirty yards downstream. The crew races along the bank, shouting useless encouragement. I scan the terrain, calculating distances, tryingto find a place where the creek narrows enough that we might reach him. But the bank grows steeper, the current faster. We’ll never get to him in time.
Then Lena does something unexpected. “Give me your rope,” she commands, her voice cutting through the panic.
Without hesitation, I hand her the coil of rope from my belt. Her fingers fly, a blur of motion, creating a complex series of loops and knots I recognize from my training but hadn’t expected her to know. She isn’t fumbling or guessing—these are the movements of someone who’s tied these knots hundreds of times.
“Hold this end,” she instructs, thrusting the rope back into my hands. Then she fashions a makeshift harness around her waist and chest. “When I give the signal, pull hard.”
Before I can ask what she’s doing, she scrambles down the bank toward a boulder jutting into the creek, upstream from the rapids. Carlos is getting closer—still fighting the current, still losing.
“Carlos!” Lena shouts. “Grab my hand when I say now!” She positions herself on the rock, secured by the harness she rigged earlier, and extends her arm over the water. As Carlos sweeps toward her, she leans out, far.
“NOW!” she yells.
Carlos lunges for Lena’s outstretched arm. Their hands connect, fingers locking tight. His momentum nearly yanks her off the ledge, but the lines absorb the shock, tension snapping through the rig instead of her shoulder.
“Pull!” she calls to me.
I heave on the rope, muscles straining against the creek’s pull, amazed at how effectively her knot system works. It gives us the mechanical advantage we desperately need.Where the hell did she learn this?With a final effort, we haul them onto the bank, both soaked and gasping.
Carloscollapses on the muddy shore, coughing up creek water, while Lena unwinds the rope harness with calm, efficient hands.
“That was...” Elliott begins, for once at a loss for words.
“Unbelievable,” finishes one of the crew members, staring at Lena with new respect.
She shrugs, self-conscious as everyone gapes at her. “It was nothing. Basic rescue knots.”
“Basic rescue knots?” I repeat. “That was a textbook swift-water rescue harness. Where did you learn to tie something like that?”
She glances up, something vulnerable flickering across her face. “My grandfather. He was a fisherman.” Then, as if catching herself revealing too much, she adds, her tone lighter, “Plus, I had to play a Coast Guard officer in that movie... You know, the one with the hurricane.”
“Rough Waters,” supplies Elliott. “You had, what, three scenes before your character got killed off?”
“Four,” she corrects. “But who’s counting?”
I study her, noting the way she avoids my eyes as she coils the rope with efficiency. Those weren’t movie knots. Those were skills someone lives by, passed down, the kind that settle deep in your bones.
Meanwhile, Carlos has recovered enough to check his camera equipment, dismay tightening his features as water pours from the expensive case. “My footage,” he moans. “Everything from yesterday is on these memory cards.”
“At least you’re alive to shoot more,” Lena points out, wringing water from her hair.
“Elliott’s going to kill me,” Carlos groans, not seeing his boss standing three feet away, arms crossed.
“I haven’t decided yet,” Elliott says. “Depends on how salvageable those cards are.”
I help Lena to her feet, noting she’s re-injured her ankle inthe rescue. “That was quick thinking,” I say in a low voice. “You saved him.”
“We saved him,” she corrects, wincing as she puts weight on her ankle.
“You’re hurt again,” I observe.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” I counter. “You’ve re-injured it.”
