“And you think you know the right path?” Elliott laughs, the sound sharp and humorless. “The actress who showed up in designer clothes? The woman whose entire wilderness experience comes from a three-day crash course with a mountain guide?”
His words sting, but only because they align with what he believes—not with what’s true.
Carlos clears his throat. “My GPS app says we’re off course too, Elliott.”
“You have a GPS app?” Elliott rounds on him. “Why didn’t you mention this before?”
“Because it hardly works out here,” Carlos shrugs. “And you seemed so ... certain.”
Elliott looks from Carlos to me, then at the cameramen who have become fascinated with adjusting their equipment. The silence stretches. “Fine,” he says at last, his voice tight with wounded pride. “Where do you think we should go, Lena?”
“Over that rise.” I point to the ridge crest to our left. “If I’m right, we’ll spot the thumb rock from there, and the basin beyond it.”
Elliott gestures for me to lead, his expression a mixture ofdoubt and resentment. “By all means. Show us your newfound expertise.”
I sense the cameras on me as I pick a path up the rocky slope, testing handholds before committing. The weight of Elliott’s skepticism presses on me—if I’m wrong, I’ve confirmed his low expectations. But I’m not wrong.
We crest the ridge, and there it stands—a solitary spire of dark rock, jutting skyward like nature’s idea of a thumbs up.
“The thumb,” Carlos breathes beside me. Below it, the landscape opens into a broad natural basin, sheltered by mountains on three sides. A ribbon of silver water cuts through its center—the spring Finn mentioned.
“That’s our camping spot,” I say, unable to keep the satisfaction from my voice. “We should make it before sunset.”
Elliott looks at the basin, then at me, his expression unreadable. “Lucky guess.”
“Not luck,” I counter, no longer willing to play small. “I spent summers with my grandmother in the Appalachians. She taught me a few things about finding my way. Not everything, but enough to know which way is north and what a map is supposed to look like right-side up.”
“Your grandmother was an outdoorswoman?” Carlos asks, intrigued.
“She lived in the mountains.” My lips curve, remembering her lined face and calloused hands. “Knew some plants, could predict the weather by looking at the sky. Practical knowledge that she passed down to me during those summer visits.”
Elliott’s eyebrows lift. “That wasn’t in your bio, Kensington.”
“Hollywood doesn’t sell movie tickets with stories about actresses who can identify a few edible plants.”
“But the whole premise of this show—” Elliott starts.
“Was to observe me struggle and fail,” I finish for him. “To laugh at the pampered princess out of herelement.”
Elliott has the grace to look uncomfortable. “It tested better with focus groups.”
“I’m sure it did.” I turn away from him, starting down the slope toward the basin. “But that’s not the show you’re going to get.”
We descend in single file, following a natural drainage path down the steep terrain. As we near the valley floor, I spot a patch of familiar plants growing beside a seep in the rock face.
“Wait,” I call to the others, kneeling beside the greenery. “I think I recognize these.”
“What are they?” Carlos asks, directing one of the cameramen to capture the moment.
“Yarrow, I think,” I explain, touching the clusters of tiny white flowers. “My grandmother showed me this one. Good for cuts and scrapes, if I remember right.”
Elliott watches with masked interest. “Anything else useful around here?”
“Those might be wild onions.” I point to shoots growing nearby. “But I’d need to check with Finn before eating any of them. Gram always said, ‘When in doubt, go without.’”
As we continue toward the spring, I point out a few more plants that look familiar, though I’m careful to admit when I’m uncertain. Carlos captures everything on camera, prompting me to explain things.
“This is good content,” I overhear him telling Elliott. “Authentic.”
