“Lena faced him down,” Jake adds, looking toward Mags with respect. “Talked to it, backed us all up until it wandered off.”
I glance toward Mags, who’s crouched beside the water filter, deliberately focused. She must sense my attention because she straightens and looks over, her expression unreadable.A shrug follows—cool, dismissive, a gesture meant to brush me off as much as the story she’s downplaying.
“It wasn’t a big deal. Remembered something about making noise.”
Not a big deal? She stood her ground in front of Grizzletoe and kept this crew from unraveling. And yet here she is, shrinking the moment down to nothing. She’s not underselling the story—she’s drawing a line. I’m not inside the circle anymore. I’m not the person she turns to, not the one she trusts with the truth.
Jake snorts. “Not a big deal? The thing was the size of your Polaris, Finn. Perhaps bigger. Good thing he took one assessment of Lena and decided she was too much trouble.” He winks, trying to lighten the mood, but the tension remains.
I process this. While I was dealing with Dave, Mags was here, handling a close encounter with Grizzletoe, keeping the crew safe, and downplaying it. Why hadn’t she mentioned it? Part of keeping her distance? Or something else?
“Alright,” I say, pushing questions aside. “Let’s set up camp further downstream. Everyone keep alert tonight.” The crew nods, the nervous energy returning as they unpack the gear.
I try to help, but my body protests. Even gathering firewood is an effort. Mags sees me struggling to lift a larger piece of deadfall. For a second, I think she hesitates, hand reaching out. Then she catches herself, turns away, and confers with Carlos about camera placement. That momentary lapse, the instinct overridden by the wall, hurts more than the physical pain.
Dinner is quiet. I force down some stew, needing fuel, but my appetite’s gone. Mags sits with Carlos and Marco, laughing at something Marco says. The sound drifts across the campfire, a melody I’m no longer part of. It’s like watching a scene from behind glass.
Later, as the others turn in—double-checking zippers, peering into the dark—I linger by the fire, looking into the flames, wrestling with regret and pain. How do I fix this? How do I bridge the distance? Words won’t be enough. An apology feels too small.
She emerges from her tent, heading toward the stream for water. She pauses near the fire, her expression unreadable.
“Is your arm okay?” she asks, voice neutral. The first personal comment since our argument.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Bandage is holding.” My mind is still grappling with the bear encounter she never mentioned. Facing down Grizzletoe, and she said nothing to me.
She nods. “Good.” She hesitates, as if she wants to say more, then her expression closes off. “Get some rest, Finn. Long day tomorrow to get back to the lodge.” Just like that, the guide assessing the other guide. No Mags in sight. Only Lena Kensington, professional and distant. She turns and walks toward the stream without looking back, leaving me alone by the dying fire.
It wasn’t much. A brief check-in. Perhaps responsibility, not concern. But knowing what she faced ... it adds another layer to my regret. I stare into the embers, the physical discomfort forgotten, replaced by a different ache. An apology isn’t enough. I need to show her. Show her I understand her—all of her. Show her I heard her. Show her I can change.
Tomorrow. On the hike down. I have to find a way to start if she’ll let me.
Chapter Twenty-Five
LENA
The metallic scrapeof tent poles collapsing jolts me from a restless sleep. Outside, the sounds of departure are underway—murmured voices, the clatter of cook gear being packed, the rustle of sleeping bags being stuffed into sacks. It's the last morning of this. The finality of it sits like a stone in my stomach, mixing with the hurt that's been eating at me for days—ever since Finn chose his pride, his damn lodge, over us. In my tent, listening to everyone else getting ready to leave together, I've never felt more alone.
Packing up is different today. There’s a sense of an ending, though whether it’s the end of the expedition or the end of something more fragile remains uncertain. The crew moves with a subdued efficiency, the usual banter replaced by quiet focus. We’re all tired, worn down by the challenges, ready for the relative comfort of the lodge. Ready for hot showers and real beds.
I avoid looking at Finn as we eat a quick breakfast of lukewarm oatmeal. He stands apart, speaking in a low voice with Carlos about the route down, his face locked in the stoic mask he’s worn like armor these past few days. He favors his leftside, movements tight and deliberate, though he tries to hide it.
My eyes catch on the bandage peeking out beneath his rolled-up sleeve. Last night, sitting near the fire, he offered a clipped update—”Bandage is holding”—a statement more about pushing me away than keeping me informed. Not an invitation. Just a line drawn in the ash.
He made his choice.Handle it yourself.
We set out, leaving the basin behind, the sun climbing, promising warmth later in the day. The descent is easier than the climbs we’ve endured. The path, though still muddy in places and littered with debris from the flood, follows the stream’s gradient downward.
Yet, the easier terrain does little to ease the tension coiling inside me. With every step taking us closer to the lodge, closer to reliable communication, closer to the life I left behind, the questions loom larger. What happens now? What happens when the wilderness is no longer forcing us together, when the demands of our separate realities replace the demands of survival?
Finn walks point, setting a brisk pace—eager to get back as much as the rest of us, though probably for different reasons. He moves with a relentless determination, pushing through pain I know is still there. I watch the steady set of his shoulders, the way he reads the trail with instinct, making subtle adjustments to account for his injuries. He’s a force of nature in his own right—rugged, unyielding, and as impenetrable right now.
I fall in behind Jake and Marco, letting space grow between me and Finn. It’s easier this way. Less temptation to close the distance. Less risk of being shut out again. I focus on the rhythm of hiking—the pressure of the trail beneath my boots; the forest sounds waking around us. Birdsong. The rush of the stream growing louder as we descend. The crunchof gravel underfoot. It’s peaceful, but my mind refuses to follow.
Elliott, sensing the end is near—and perhaps aware the drama has cooled into silence—mostly leaves us alone, focusing his crew on B-roll: sunlight through trees, water tumbling over rocks, wide shots of the trail. Every so often, he directs me to look “thoughtfully reflective” or “wearily triumphant,” and I oblige. The actress takes over, delivering on cue. Slipping into that familiar role is easy, almost comforting. But after the rawness of these past weeks, it doesn’t fit the way it used to.
We cover miles. The air grows warmer, heavier with the scent of damp earth and pine resin, replacing the thin, sharp edge of the high alpine meadows. The trees rise taller now, crowding closer. The world presses in—less exposed, more intimate. Part of me welcomes the return to lower ground, the promise of comfort and safety. Another part mourns the loss of the vast, stark beauty of the peaks—the raw simplicity, the clarity that came when life was stripped down to the bare bones.
By mid-afternoon, a familiar landmark comes into view. It’s the stand of old-growth spruce near the trail junction leading back to Crystal Creek Retreat. We’re close. An hour, perhaps less. A wave of conflicting emotions crashes in—relief at the thought of an actual bed, exhaustion deep in my bones, apprehension about what comes next, and a quiet, unexpected pang of sadness. Sadness? For leaving this place that’s been equal parts terror and … something else?Surprising.
