“Serious enough that I don't want him climbing higher. His lungs are compromised. The altitude will make it worse.”
Elliott rubs his face, and I can almost see the calculations clicking behind his eyes. “What are our options?”
I glance up the ridge, then back toward the narrow switchbacks we climbed yesterday—loose shale, tree cover, nowhere near enough space for a chopper. “We’re too high and too exposed for a safe landing. Closest flat terrain is back down.” I pause, then lay it out. “I take him down to a clearing big enough for a helicopter pickup. The rest of you keep going to Painted Peaks with the directions I’ll give you.”
“Split the group?” Elliott looks skeptical. “Is that safe?”
“Safer than letting his condition deteriorate at a higher altitude. He needs medical attention, and I'll take the satellite phone if there's an emergency.”
Elliott considers this, then nods with reluctance. “Alright. But what about the footage? The whole point of this expedition was to document Lena's wilderness journey with you as the guide.”
“Carlos is an experienced cameraman. He can handle both his regular shots and cover what Dave would have filmed. The trail to the basin is well-marked on the maps. Lena's proven she can handle herself better than anyone expected.” I pause, considering my next words. “Plus, staying with the group would mean delaying medical help for Dave by days.”
Elliott weighs his priorities, the man's health winning out over production concerns. “Fine. We'll split up. But I need something for the narrative—some moment between you and Lena that bridges this separation.”
Of course he does. Everything's about the story with Elliott, even medical emergencies.
“I'll talk to her,” I concede, if only to get him moving.
Once the decision is made, things move. I pull out my maps, marking the route to the lower basin with precise directions for Elliott. “Follow the ridge line,” I explain. “When you reach this rock formation that resembles athumb, descend to your right. The lower basin opens up below—can't miss it. Good water source, protected camping area. I can probably get Dave to safety and rejoin you there in two days.”
Elliott examines the map. “And if you don't make it back by then?”
“Continue to the high basin. The trail's straightforward—follow the valley up. Painted Peaks is a day’s hike from there. We'll catch up or meet you on the return journey.”
I gather the group to explain the plan. Dave looks simultaneously relieved and guilty, while the others shift at the thought of continuing without me.
“I'll guide them,” Lena says, her voice clear. Everyone turns to regard her. “I've been paying attention to the maps,” she adds. “And I've got a good sense of the terrain now. Between me and Elliott, we can manage.”Her, guide them?A week ago, the idea would've been laughable. Now … hell, she's probably right. She's got a calmness about her, a focus that wasn't there before. And she actually has been studying those maps.
Elliott brightens at this fortuitous plot twist. “Perfect! The student becomes the teacher. We'll get great footage of Lena using her newfound skills.”
I can't help but be proud, watching her step up with quiet confidence. This isn't the woman who arrived in designer heels, afraid of the outdoors. This is someone discovering her capability, day by day.
“Can we talk?” I ask her as the others finish packing. “Alone.”
We walk a short distance from camp, far enough for privacy but still within sight of the group. Morning sunlight catches in her hair, turning the edges gold. It strikes me again how different she looks out here—stronger, more present,more real.
“You don't have to take on the guide role,” I tell her. “Elliott's responsible for everyone's safety.”
“I know.” Her eyes find mine. “But I want to. I can do this, Finn.”
“I know you can.” And I do. That's what surprises me most—the certainty that she'll get them there.
“Stick to the maps, keep to daylight travel, and monitor the weather. I'll keep the satellite phone since Dave might need emergency evacuation.”
She nods, taking it all in. “How bad is Dave?”
“Infected bee stings, possible delayed allergic reaction. Nothing life-threatening yet, but it could head that way if untreated.”
“Then you're making the right call.” She hesitates, then adds, “About last night?—”
“We don't have to talk about it,” I interrupt, unsure what to say. Last night was simple in the darkness, two people connecting. In daylight, with reality reasserting itself, everything's more complicated.
“I want to,” she insists. “I need you to know that wasn't ... I wasn't playing a part. That was real.”
The admission catches me off guard. I'm used to guarding myself, keeping distance. But standing here with her, the morning light on her face—stripped of Hollywood makeup but somehow more beautiful for it—I find myself unwilling to maintain those barriers.
“It was real for me too,” I tell her.
