“The network will be more concerned about keeping their star alive,” I counter, my attention on Lena across the clearing. She works alongside Carlos, dabbing water from soaked camera cases, her movements quick and efficient, removing memory cards and batteries from the equipment that might be salvageable.
“At least we got incredible footage of the flood,” Elliottsays, already focused on ratings. “Lena's reaction when she saw that wall of debris coming was priceless. Pure terror, what we needed.”
I turn to face him. “You understand we're in actual danger here, right? This isn't a performance.”
He has the decency to look embarrassed. “Of course. Safety first. But we might as well capture interesting footage while we're at it.”
We move toward the center of our makeshift camp, grateful no one had been inside the tents when the flood hit. The ground is saturated now, which eliminates the risk of wildfire—good, because we'll need heat fast. Carlos and Javier shake out wet sleeping bags, searching for a place to dry them. We have to get a fire started—the sooner we generate enough heat, the faster we can dry what's left of our gear. With eight people and only four shelters, we'll need to double up tonight, relying on body heat to keep warm when the temperatures drop.
My attention drifts to Lena as she checks the tent poles, her hands now steady and sure, making quick work of the task. There's no hesitation, no need to prove anything—quiet skill and focus. The realization hits me hard—how much I've misjudged her. Not because she put on an act, but because I was too damn stubborn to see past the Hollywood bullshit.
Dave's shout slices through the clearing. “Hey, boss! Found a beehive the flood knocked down.”
“Stay clear of it,” I call back, moving toward him. “If the colony survived, they'll be aggressive.”
Dave gives a nod but leans closer. “Think there's any honey? I've seen survival shows where they?—”
“Dave, back away. Now.” Too late. His startled yelp echoes through the trees as he stumbles back, swatting at his arms and neck. “They're on me! Get them off!”
I break into a run as he collapses to his knees,welts blooming across his skin. Carlos throws the med kit my way. I tear it open and curse. No EpiPen. No antihistamines. Gauze, antiseptic, aspirin. The backup kit. The other one went downstream. Dave's breath comes fast, his skin flushed and swelling.
“I saw plantain by the creek,” Lena says, her voice cutting through the rising panic. “I'll get it.” Before I can even process what she's said, let alone give an okay, she's moving. Despite that ankle, she's running—favoring the leg, yeah, but fast. Plantain? How the hell does she know about plantain?
The rest of us huddle around Dave, trying to keep him calm. She returns minutes later, breathless, muddy, and clutching a bundle of broad green leaves.
“Here it is,” she says, dropping to her knees. “I need water and a cloth. Honey if we have it.”
Carlos passes her a canteen. Elliott pulls a bandana from his pocket. Someone hands her a honey packet from the salvaged food rations. She crushes the leaves between two flat rocks, adding water and honey until it becomes a thick green paste.
As she works, I can’t help thinking the tin of salve May gave me—the one that worked wonders on bites—would’ve been perfect for this. But it’s long gone, swept away with the rest of our gear in the flood.
She applies the paste to Dave’s arms and neck, her movements deliberate and sure. “This should pull out the venom and calm the inflammation. Keep him upright and monitor his breathing.”
Dave flinches at first but then lets out a shaky breath. The panic in his eyes fade. The welts stop growing. His breathing evens out.
“Thank you,” he wheezes, his attention riveted on Lena with new respect.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she says, preparing a fresh batch of the poultice. “We need to leave this on and make you a teafrom the same plant. The reaction could return if we’re not careful.”
While she works, I check Dave’s pulse and airways, confirming what’s already clear—he’s out of immediate danger. The crew watches in silent amazement as Lena, covered in mud from the flash flood and working with primitive tools, continues to treat him with calm, steady hands.
As we lift Dave, Elliott regards her. “Where'd you learn to do all that?”
Lena doesn't hesitate. “Research for the role,” she says with an airy shrug. The actress is back. Smooth deflection. But why deflect now, after yesterday?
As we haul Dave to one of the tents, I look over at her. “You know,” I say, “you don't look like someone with a sprained ankle.”
She doesn't lift her eyes. “Adrenaline's a hell of a drug.”
I nod, but I'm not thinking about the adrenaline. I'm thinking about her—the Lena beneath the image, the one who ran on an injured leg to grab leaves she remembered seeing in a patch of mud. The one who moved like a woman trained by someone who loved her enough to pass down generations of knowledge.
“The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, huh?” I offer, trying to make it easy.
She huffs a soft laugh. “Oh, my mother was useless in a crisis. Perhaps that's why Memaw spent so much time with me. She wanted someone to carry it on.”
“She picked the right girl.”
She regards me, then turns away, busying herself with the poultice again. I let it go. For now.
