Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
FINN
Leaving Painted Peaks 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 the distant 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.”
“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.