Carlos nods, understanding more than he lets on.
The rest of the afternoon on camera is harder to stomach. Knowing Elliott has that footage—knowing he’ll twist it into whatever version suits him—makes every scene feel hollow. By the time he calls wrap and announces we’ll begin the descentafterbreaking camp in the morning, I’m wrung out—emotionally and physically.
As the crew starts prepping for tomorrow, packing cameras and sound equipment for the long hike down, I stand facing the sweeping, unforgiving beauty of the Painted Peaks. We made it. We reached the destination. But the victory feels hollow.
My fingers close around the small brass compass in my pocket—Finn’s mother’s. He gave it to me like a promise. Atether. Now it just feels like a weight, a reminder of the distance between us. The different worlds we come from.
He pushed me away. Chose his pride and his fear over trust—overus. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was foolish to think whatever this was between us could survive beyond this place.
Still … a part of me wishes it could have.
Tomorrow, we start the hike down. Back toward the lodge, toward Port Promise, toward the life waiting for me back in Los Angeles. Part of me longs for the familiar comfort of my world, the predictability, the control. Another part aches with the loss of something I didn’t know I was searching for until I found it here, with him.
As the crew gathers around the final campfire at Painted Peaks, sharing the last of the decent coffee and reminiscing about the expedition’s highs and lows—the flood, the bear, Dave’s bee stings—I keep my distance. I watch Finn across the flames. He’s laughing at something Jake said, but the laughter doesn’t reach his eyes. He shifts position, trying to find comfort for his ribs, and I see him press a hand to his side when he thinks no one is looking. My heart clenches. He’s hurting. And tomorrow, we start the long hike down. He won’t ask for help. And after yesterday, I don’t know how to offer it.
I retreat to my tent, zipping the flap closed against the cold and the forced camaraderie outside. Lying alone in the darkness, I trace the outline of the compass through my pocket. The journey isn’t over yet. We still have to get off this mountain. And I still don’t know what happens when we do.
Chapter Twenty-Four
FINN
Leaving PaintedPeaks feels like walking away from a battlefield. Not one littered with bullets and debris, but the quieter kind—where trust is the casualty. The meadow, sharp with morning light, feels altered now, its beauty undercut by the dull ache in my chest, one that has nothing to do with bruised ribs.
Packing up is all strained silence and averted looks. Mags moves with quiet precision, breaking down her tent—hers, not ours—methodically folding away what little we had. She doesn’t spare me a glance. The crew follows her lead, careful and subdued. They all saw it happen. The shift. The fracture. Now they navigate around it like a fresh wound.
Even Elliott reins in his usual flair, offering only clipped directions. No jokes. No commentary. Only a shared, uncomfortable quiet that says everything.
Shouldering my pack is agony. I manage it with a grunt, shifting the weight to my left side. My arm throbs beneath the clean bandage I fumbled with last night, one-handed. My ribs burn with every breath. The days spent pretending I was fine—climbing, filming, holding it together—have taken their toll.And now, contemplating the miles back to the lodge, it’s like facing another mountain.
“Everyone ready?” I call out, forcing authority into my voice, pushing past the discomfort. “We stick together on the way down. The terrain is easier but stay alert. Loose rock, muddy patches from the storms.”
Nods all around. Mags gives a curt acknowledgment without meeting my eyes. My damn fault. I told her to stay out of it, to let me handle it. And she is.
We start the descent, retracing our steps down from the high meadow. Going downhill should be easier, quicker. Gravity helps. But for me, each downward step jars my ribs, sending a fresh shock of pain through my torso. The impact travels up my spine, making my teeth clench. Using the trekking poles helps balance, as my right arm is mainly useless, but it doesn’t ease the grinding ache. Mags walks ahead of me this time, behind Jake. She moves with a fluid grace that wasn’t there on the way up, her body adapted to the rhythm of the trail, even with the weakness in her ankle. She points out things to Carlos now and then—a hawk, a patch of paintbrush—her voice calm and professional, fitting Elliott’s “return to roots” narrative. She doesn’t turn back. Why would she?
The miles pass. Elliott, sensing the lack of drama now that Mags and I avoid each other, focuses on scenic vistas and B-roll footage. He tries once to stage a shot of Mags helping me navigate a tricky section.
"Lena, perhaps give Finn a hand with that equipment?" he suggests, gesturing to Finn adjusting his pack straps. "Show that teamwork."
“Looks like he’s got it,” Mags replies, her voice perfectly level, devoid of the warmth from the cave, not even breaking stride. She leaves me to stumble through the loose shale alone. The rejection, quiet and public, lands like a kick to my already bruised ribs, harder because it comes from Mags, not thedistant Lena Kensington. Confirmation of the line drawn between us.
We make better time on the descent, covering ground faster than we did climbing up, even with my slower pace. By late afternoon, we reach the valley floor near the stream. The air feels heavier here, warmer. As I scout for a campsite near the spring, I notice the crew is on edge—eyes scanning the slopes and dense thickets. Jake and Marco exchange low words, their attention fixed on a bend upstream, unease written in every stiff movement.
“What’s going on?” I ask, lowering my pack. “Everyone looks spooked.”
“Isn’t this ... where we encountered it?” Jake asks, voice hushed, pointing to the bend with a nod.
“Encountered what?” I survey the area. The place looks normal. Valley floor, stream, trees.
“The bear, man!” Marco says, eyes wide. “The huge one! Came out of the trees over there.”
A bear? While I was gone? “Big bear? What kind?”
“Golden,” Carlos chimes in. “Massive. I read somewhere locals call him Grizzletoe? Said he’s legendary.”
Grizzletoe. I nod. “Yeah, that’s him. Big old bear, unusual color. I ran into him once as a kid. He usually keeps to himself—rarely comes this close to the main trails.” I study them more closely now, my voice tightening. “You saw Grizzletoe? Here?”
“Right here,” Carlos confirms. “Stood up on his hind legs, checked us out. Scared Elliott.”
