Chapter 6 #2
Lena sits with her injured leg propped up, her face pale beneath smudges of mud. Her entire body trembles.
“You need to get out of those wet clothes,” I say, digging through my pack for dry spares. “Your core temperature is dropping. Nothing to mess around with.”
“I’m fine,” she says, though her chattering teeth contradict her.
Elliott peers over. “We should capture this. The reality of wilderness survival.”
“Camera stays off.” My tone leaves no room for debate. “She changes in private.”
The small cabin offers little in the way of privacy, but the crew moves outside to retrieve the rest of our gear, giving Lena a chance to change. I hand her my dry thermal shirt and a pair of wool pants. “They’ll be too big, but they’re warm,” I say. “I’ll step outside.”
“Wait,” she says, gripping my arm with icy fingers. “I can’t ... my hands won’t work right.” Her fingers have turned white with cold, unable to grasp the zipper of her jacket. The cold’s hitting her hard.
“Let me help,” I say, keeping my voice calm.
She nods, embarrassment coloring her cheeks as I help her remove the soppy rain jacket.
Beneath it, her clothes have soaked through despite the supposed waterproofing.
I work with forced focus, unzipping, unbuttoning, helping her arms free of the clinging, cold fabric.
When necessary, she leans against my shoulder for balance, her skin cold where it touches mine .
“I don’t need help with...” she gestures vaguely downward when we reach base layers.
“I’ll turn around,” I say. “But don’t try standing on that ankle alone.” I face the door, listening to the rustle of fabric, ready to catch her if she falls.
When the rustling stops, I wait until she speaks. “Okay.”
I turn to find her swimming in my clothes. The sleeves hang past her fingertips, the pants roll multiple times at the ankle, but color is returning to her face.
“Better?”
She nods. “Thank you.”
I help her back to the bench, examining her ankle again. The swelling has increased, skin taut and discolored.
“Bad?” she asks.
“Swollen,” I say. “You’ll need to stay off it for a day or two. Ice would help, but...” I gesture toward the rain-lashed window. “Cold compress coming up,” I say, heading to the door.
Outside, rain continues to fall in sheets. I fill a small stuff sack with the cold rainwater, returning to place it on her swollen ankle.
“The crew?” she asks.
“Setting up tarps for the equipment,” I say. “They’ll be in soon.”
She leans back against the rough wooden wall, exhaustion evident in every line of her body. “This isn’t what I signed up for.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
Our eyes meet, and for a moment, something unspoken hangs in the air. “Thank you. For catching me.”
“Part of the job.”
“Is it?” A faint, tired smile touches her lips. “Hauling entitled actresses out of ravines?”
“Not usually included in the lodge owner contract,” I admit. “Nash handles the professional guiding. I’m the backup plan.”
The stove generates actual heat now, filling the cabin with the scent of burning pine. Lena extends her hands toward it, palms out. “I’ve never been this cold,” she says, her voice low.
“Wet cold is the worst,” I say. “Especially when you’re not moving.”
“How do you stand living here?”
“You prepare for it,” I say. “Respect it. The land isn’t trying to kill you, but it will if you don’t take it seriously.”
She considers this, eyes on the glowing stove. “I never took anything seriously enough. That’s what my grandmother used to say.”
The mention of her grandmother registers. Another small insight behind the Hollywood facade.
The door bursts open as the crew returns, bringing a rush of cold air and the smell of rain. They crowd into the cabin, creating an instant chaos of wet gear and competing voices. Elliott reworks the shooting schedule, while the camera operators dry their equipment.
“We should check our food supplies. We might be here longer than planned if this weather holds.”
Inventory reveals a solid amount—enough to last the trip when combined with what we’d planned to forage and catch along the way. The cabin has a crude rainwater collection system that will provide drinking water. Basic, but we’ll survive comfortably enough.
As evening approaches, the rain transforms from a downpour to a steady drizzle.
The crew sprawls across the cabin floor, exhausted from the day’s ordeal.
Lena remains on her bench, ankle elevated, wearing my oversized clothes.
She’s a far cry from the polished actress who arrived at my lodge days ago.
I sit beside her, offering a bowl of reconstituted stew. “Not gourmet, but it’s hot.”
She accepts it, a grateful look in her eyes. “I feel ridiculous.”
“Why?”
She gestures down at herself. “Wrapped in clothes ten sizes too big, covered in mud, ankle swollen to twice its normal size. If people could see me now…”
“They’d find someone who hiked miles through a storm with a sprained ankle without complaining,” I say. “That’s not ridiculous.”
Her head tilts, surprise flickering across her face. “Was that a compliment, Finn Hollister?”
“Observation,” I say. “You’re tougher than you let on.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” she whispers conspiratorially. “It would ruin my reputation.”
Despite everything—the rain, the injury, the change of plans—I appreciate this version of Lena. No performance, no calculated responses for the camera. A woman facing down the hard realities thrown at her.
Outside, darkness falls under the heavy clouds. The temperature drops, wind picking up to rattle the cabin’s single window. Inside, the woodstove provides a bubble of warmth and light.
Elliott approaches with his ever-present clipboard. “We should discuss tomorrow’s revised schedule.”
“Tomorrow depends on the weather,” I say. “And her ankle.”
“We can work around both,” he insists. “If the rain stops, we film her recovery narrative. If not, we capture the challenge of waiting out a storm. Either way, we need to make progress.”
Lena says nothing, turning the empty stew bowl in her hands, her face drawn with fatigue.
“We’ll assess in the morning,” I say. “For now, everyone should rest.”
Figuring out sleeping arrangements in the small cabin was a puzzle.
The crew spreads their sleeping bags across the floor in a tight formation.
I insist Lena keep the bench, padding it with extra clothing to create a makeshift bed.
I will take the floor nearby, within reach, if she needs help during the night.
As the others settle down, complaints about hard floors and cramped quarters filling the cabin, I step outside to check the weather one last time. The rain has stopped, but heavy clouds promise more to come. The air smells of wet earth and pine, crisp with dropping temperatures.
When I return, most of the crew has fallen asleep, exhaustion overcoming discomfort. Lena lies awake on her bench, looking at the low ceiling.
“How’s the ankle?” I ask, my voice low as I settle into my sleeping bag.
“Throbbing,” she admits. “But better than earlier.”
“The cold compress helped. We’ll try another in the morning.”
She’s quiet for a beat, then exhales. “I didn’t expect to actually get hurt.
Injury wasn’t even on my radar.” She glances at the ceiling, then back at me.
“In Hollywood, everything’s staged. Controlled.
If someone’s bleeding, there’s a medic off camera.
” She touches her hair, limp and tangled from the day.
“I knew this wouldn’t be glamorous. I didn’t realize how real it would get.
” Her eyes sweep over the cabin, confirming the crew is asleep before she leans closer.
“You can’t tell anyone this,” she whispers, “but none of this is real. The blonde hair, the perfect skin. Hollywood magic.”
That catches me off guard. “What do you mean?”
“My real name is Magdalena Reyes-Johnson. My grandmother Socorro taught me about plants—she was my dad’s mother.
My mom was raised to be a Southern belle, the kind of girl who made her debut in a white dress and pearls.
Then she fell in love with a Mexican mechanic and got disowned before I was born.
” She gives a small, tired laugh. “The granddaughter of a Mississippi debutante and a Mexican immigrant doesn’t sell as many movie tickets as blonde, blue-eyed Lena Kensington. ”
The revelation hangs between us in the quiet cabin. I see her differently now, catching traces of the woman she describes beneath the carefully constructed image.
“Magdalena suits you better,” I say, my voice low. “Thank you for telling me.”
She nods, looking both relieved and vulnerable. “Get some sleep,” I add. “Things often look better in the morning.”
“Even in Alaska?”
“Especially in Alaska.”
She closes her eyes, pulling my borrowed jacket tighter around her shoulders. Within minutes, her breathing deepens into sleep. I remain awake longer, listening to the cabin sounds—creaking wood, soft snores, the occasional pop from the dying fire in the stove.
My thoughts keep returning to the moment at the ravine edge, her hand gripping mine, fear flickering in her eyes—raw, unguarded, and real. In that instant, all the Hollywood polish had fallen away. We were simply two people, one falling, one catching. Raw and real.
Through the cabin’s single window, darkness presses against the glass.
The rain has stopped, but clouds still block the stars.
Tomorrow will bring challenges of its own—wet trails, slippery footing, and once the sun dries things out, the mosquitoes will return with a vengeance.
Alaska’s summer residents always make their presence known after a good rain.
I add another log to the stove and allow myself to sleep.