I turn away, curling into myself, the sting of rejection mixing with grudging respect for his control.
As we finally settle to sleep, his arms around me now without any survival necessity, I wonder about choices. About paths taken and abandoned. About which version of myself is real—the constructed Lena Kensington or the Magdalena Reyes-Johnson who keeps resurfacing in this wilderness. Perhaps Finn is right. Perhaps they were never separate. Perhaps all the knowledge, all the heritage, all the parts of myself I buried, have been waiting to be remembered.
Against Finn's chest, I listen to his heartbeat, steady and strong. Like the land he loves, he is solid, unchanging, true to himself in a way I've forgotten how to be. I've spent years cutting myself off from my roots. Maybe it's time to discover if any remain, waiting to grow again.
Chapter Fifteen
FINN
The storm passedduring the night, leaving behind a landscape scrubbed raw by rainfall. Beside me, Lena sleeps, her slumber peaceful and deep. Last night's kiss hangs in my mind. Not part of the plan. Not professional. But I can't bring myself to regret it. I ease away, not wanting to wake her. The flood cost us valuable time. If we're going to reach Painted Peaks according to Elliott's precious schedule, we need to push hard today.
Outside the tent, frost coats the ground. The temperature has dropped sharply after the rain. I check the sky—boundless blue, which means good hiking but cold conditions until the sun rises higher. My first thought is getting everyone warm and fed. Elliott's, no doubt, is how to spin last night's storm into more 'drama.' Better get water boiling for coffee before waking everyone.
By the time I've got the camp stove running, Elliott emerges from his tent, clipboard in hand. “Morning,” he says, sounding surprisingly cheerful for a man who slept on the ground. “Weather's perfect for filming. How far to Painted Peaks from here?”
“We’ve still got a solid two days. If we push, we can make the lower basin by nightfall,” I say, measuring out coffee grounds. “But it’s all uphill from here. Rough terrain.”
“Excellent,” he says, making notes. “The struggle will play well on camera. Is there a suitable camping spot at this lower basin?”Called it, I think as I pour the coffee.
“There's a protected clearing with a small spring nearby. Good visibility of the peaks, which I assume is what you want for your shots.”
Elliott nods, pleased. “Perfect. Let's get everyone moving.”
The others emerge, Carlos checking his equipment for moisture damage, the second cameraman comparing notes on light conditions. Dave comes out last, moving slowly. The bee stings from earlier should have improved by now, but he looks worse—face pale, movements stiff.
“You alright?” I ask him.
“Just tired,” he says, but there's a wheeze in his voice that concerns me.
I hand him a mug of coffee. “Drink this. I'll check those stings after breakfast.”
Lena appears as I'm distributing the remaining protein bars from my personal stash—the extra rations I carry despite my family's teasing. Nash especially gives me grief about the “unnecessary weight” whenever we hike together. “You're carrying rocks in that pack,” he always says. But situations like this prove me right. You never know when you'll need the extra supplies.
“Morning,” she says, accepting the coffee I offer. Our fingers brush—a brief touch that sends a spark right through me, something it has no business doing.
“Sleep well?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral for the benefit of the others.
A small smile plays at the corner of her mouth. “Better than expected.”
Breakfast is quick. Everyone focuses on the day ahead. I check Dave's bee stings. The affected areas are hot to the touch, red streaks spreading from the original welts. Not good.
“These are infected,” I tell him, my voice low. “And I'm worried about your respiration. Any tightness in your chest?”
He gives a reluctant nod. “Since last night. Figured it was the cold air.”
I've encountered this before—delayed allergic reactions that develop into secondary infections. Out here, without proper medical supplies, it could turn dangerous fast. “You need antibiotics,” I say. “And possibly steroids for the reaction.”
“What do we do?” Dave asks, worry creasing his brow.
I weigh our options. Damn it. This is on me. I should have checked that backup kit more thoroughly after the flood. Can't send him alone. Can't risk the entire group turning back and losing the contract money either. But his breathing… The nearest medical help is May, back in Port Promise. At least a day's hike down, probably more given Dave's condition. But if he gets worse, he'll need a hospital in Craig. Sending him alone would be irresponsible, and splitting the group means fewer people to continue the journey.
“Let me think,” I tell him. “Try to stay calm and breathe slowly. We'll figure out next steps.”
We break camp. This expedition has at least taught everyone to move fast when they have to.
I take Elliott aside as the others pack. “Dave needs medical attention,” I tell him. “Those bee stings have developed into something more serious.”
Elliott directs his attention to Dave, who's struggling to roll his sleeping bag despite Carlos's help. “How serious are we talking?”
