Stuffed from lunch, I sink into my chair, ready to do nothing but digest. But Wally’s already moving, breaking the post-meal peace.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, already regretting it.

  “Got to clean the grill while it’s still hot,” Wally replies.

  I shut my eyes, hoping to avoid the inevitable. “Can’t it wait a little? Aren’t you full?”

  “It’ll be harder later.”

  Damn it. I’m a good person. “Need help?”

  Why did I have to ask?

  “Wouldn’t hurt if you filled the bag with water for me,” he suggests.

  Of course. No sink here, and everything’s a nightmare to clean. This is why I wanted to do this closer to the truck.

  “I can do it,” Sam offers.

  “We’ll take turns. It’ll be faster,” Ella says tiredly, getting up.

  “So let’s go,” I say, grabbing the bag before Sam can.

  After too many trips to the river, the grill-washing ordeal finally ends — just before all the physical effort makes me nauseous.

  Collapsing back into my chair, I watch the scene around me unfold, letting myself relax, fully satisfied. We digest the feast in peace, enjoying the shade, the breeze rustling the leaves, the river flowing nearby, and the occasional crackle of firewood.

  I’m almost asleep when the sound of Furioso drinking water stops. He walks past me, brushing against my dangling hand, and settles at Sam’s feet. Sam, completely at ease, alternates between admiring the scenery and reading.

  Then, behind him, I notice Zoe creeping around, laser toy in hand, clearly looking for Felina. She stops near Sam’s tent, where the cat is sleeping.

  She looks one way — her mom is lost in the pages of her book. She turns the other way — her dad dozing off in his beach chair.

  The coast is clear.

  She turns toward the tent cot, slipping through the magnetic mosquito net, something she’s seen Sam do plenty of times. She checks again to see if anyone’s watching, but despite everyone else being distracted, she realizes I’ve caught her.

  She plays it cool, casually petting the cat.

  She’s fooling no one. She’s definitely up to something.

  I look away for just a moment, and that’s all she needs. She leans back, torso down, and — there go her feet.

  The neat freak who trained his pets to wash their paws is going to murder her if she puts those dirt-covered sneakers on his bed.

  “Zoe!” I call in warning.

  She bolts upright, eyes wide, then resumes petting the cat, her disguise now stiff with guilt.

  “Just take your shoes off before you get in,” Sam says over his shoulder, then returns to his inner peace.

  She obeys instantly, then flops onto the bed, gazing at the tent’s ceiling in fascination. She runs a hand over the blanket, testing it out.

  So that’s all this was. Just curiosity about his tent.

  She crawls over and tucks the laser toy into Sam’s backpack, grinning, satisfied with her little adventure. Then she sprawls on her stomach, feet kicking in the air, enjoying the only shady spot on the bed beside the mosquito net.

  She stretches out with a delighted giggle. It’s so much easier to be happy when you’re a kid.

  ***

  Slowly, the weight in my stomach starts to ease as the minutes slip by — lounging, scrolling through my phone, or just getting lost in the real-life Nature Channel.

  A bird taking a bath. A dragonfly tracing a soft path over the water. A fish leaping.

  Then, about half an hour later, one of the large, lethargic creatures sprawled out in front of me makes more noise than usual, drawing my attention.

  The grumpiest one — the closest — gets up. The shadow at his feet follows suit, slipping a reading device into his pocket, and stretching. And, of course, his canine mimic does the same.

  Noticing my attention, Sam pulls a disdainful face. As he walks to his tent, he gives Ella a small nod. The moment he passes, she goes right back to her book.

  I’m not exactly close enough to my cousin to see details, but even from here, I can tell her eyes are red. Either that book is really good, or her hobby stopped being healthy a long time ago. Maybe both — would explain the obsession.

  When Sam reaches his tent, he finds Zoe fast asleep. He crouches beside her and sets up the pump to deflate his inflatable SUP board. That’s my cue — it’s time to go.

  I get up and glance in their direction, and that’s when I see it. Zoe, her head shaded from the sun, has clearly taken advantage of being out of sight. Her mouth is completely smeared with chocolate, surrounded by empty wrappers.

  So that’s what she was up to.

  Her stomach is visibly bloated, and her sprawled-out position — arms flung up, still clutching a half-empty bag of M&Ms in her sticky fingers — makes her dessert binge look even more ridiculous.

  “She really went to town on your sweets,” I say as I approach.

  Sam just chuckles, shaking his head as he starts packing up. “If she enjoyed it, that’s all that matters.”

  “No idea how she pulled that off — I’m still stuffed from lunch,” I say.

  “Dessert goes to a different stomach,” he says, a playful smirk on his face as he folds the board with precise movements.

  “I didn’t know humans had more than one stomach.” I raise an eyebrow.

  “I have one specifically for dessert, no matter what any doctor says.” The playful smirk vanishes in an instant, replaced by a sudden, serious expression the moment he glances at me.

  “I like to think I have one too,” I say, trying to bring back the friendly vibe.

  He nods toward Wally, who’s wiping drool from the corner of his mouth while folding up the chair he was napping in. “You should probably help Wally pack up.”

  I know he’s pushing me away. But honestly? I don’t even care anymore. That’s just how he is. It’s not about me.

  The only thing that still bugs me is not knowing why.

  For a second there, he managed to be friendly, but the moment he looked at me, it disappeared. Why? Is it my face?

  I think I was right from the start — he probably doesn’t like me because someone he likes spends too much time fantasizing about one of my characters or something.

  Yeah. That’s got to be it. Only something that petty could make him hate me before even knowing me.

  The clatter of Wally banging dishes snaps me back to reality. Time to roll up my sleeves. The nightmare of having no sink begins again.

  “Let’s take care of the tents first. Please,” I say to Wally.

  I tried to minimize the work, but here we are.

  Wally nods, and Ella crouches to wake Zoe.

  “Oh, dear God,” her mother groans the moment she gets a good look at her.

  Zoe, still sprawled out, looks like she just survived a dessert apocalypse — face smeared with chocolate, candy wrappers littered around her. Ella pulls her up with a sigh, grumbling under her breath as she hauls her away to get cleaned up.

  Sam lets out a quiet exhale, amused, before tossing the empty wrappers into a trash bag. I move to help, but before I can even grab one, he’s already done. With smooth, practiced efficiency, he pulls out his sleeping bag and pillow, stuffs them into his backpack, and — just like that — his tent is empty.

  I watch as he crouches down, presses a single pin, and in a matter of seconds, folds the entire structure into what looks like a neat little briefcase.

  Meanwhile, the rest of us are left struggling with poles, wrestling with the tarp, and trying to figure out how the hell this oversized mess is supposed to fit into a bag that looks way too small to hold it.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Sooner than I expected, the motorcycle is packed, loaded up with our backpacks, supplies, and tents.

  I pause for a moment, taking in how things are going. “I think we should go ahead with the first trip. The motorcycle is already packed with almost everything — our backpacks, supplies, and tents. I don’t think it can handle two people and even more gear strapped onto it. And we’re almost done anyway.”

  “Do you think we could do it like before and take Ella and Zoe on the bike together?” Wally asks Sam.

  “It might be a bit tricky getting up the hill, but honestly, it wouldn’t make much difference who comes with me — either one of you heavyweights or Ella and Zoe together,” Sam says.

  “If it doesn’t make it, Zoe and I can just hop off and walk the rest of the way. We’ll be much closer to the path once we’re near the hill,” Ella says, and Zoe nods, still sleepy, hugging her leg, sensing that it’s time to get ready to leave.

  “I can leave Furioso with you both until I come back to pick you up after I unload the motorcycle,” Sam offers, calling Furioso, who looks ready to accompany them on foot along the trail.

  I almost feel sorry for the poor dog. It seems unfair for him to be running alongside them for 22 kilometers while they’re on the motorcycle. But then I see the dog — energized, tail wagging, eyes bright with excitement. He’s as crazy as his owner.

  “We’ll finish unpacking and give this little piggy a bath while you go get Wally and JJ,” Ella agrees, walking toward the motorcycle with Zoe, as Sam pulls the motorcycle key out of his pocket. The cat, nestled inside the pocket, doesn’t miss the chance to bat at the keychain with its paw.

  “Great plan,” I say, crouching by the river for the thousandth time to fill up a bag, which he then hangs up, turning it into a makeshift faucet for washing the dishes.

  By the time this trip is over, squats will feel like child’s play. Even with Sam, Ella, and me switching off, lugging all this water is brutal.

  It’s a lot of water — all because of Wally, the clean freak, who insists on washing every single piece of cookware. This is hell. All in the name of being eco-friendly. I get it — we have to take care of nature. But the food was organic, and we were already using biodegradable products. It would be so much easier to just dunk everything in the river.

  But no. Sam’s camping permit explicitly states that washing has to be done at least fifty meters away from the river. And obviously, Sam wasn’t about to reconsider, not even a little. He even used his laser device to measure the exact distance.

  At least I hope this is the last batch. Just dry, pack up — one box for each of us — and then we’ll walk to meet Sam halfway.

  I thought it would get easier, but the moment we start walking, my thighs start to burn. I can’t blame the boxes — they’re lighter than our backpacks, just carrying some kitchen supplies — but after so much exercise already, I’m worn out. The awkward weight in my arms, combined with the constant motion, has my legs protesting almost immediately.

  Today alone, I’ve already swam — almost drowned — ran around playing with Zoe, trekked across the blazing sun like some kind of desert camel, done who knows how many squats, and now I’ve got to hike 22 kilometers with a box? I must be insane to agree to this.

  And that’s not even counting the days before this. Every kilometer driven in these conditions has been a battle — not just against the terrain, but against the way my body gets rattled to hell with every bump and jolt.

  The first day, I stepped out of the car feeling like a wreck — sore, drenched in sweat, even with the AC on full blast.

  I’m exhausted. I feel like… a slave. I don’t want to walk anymore. And yet here I am, hauling this stupid box like a pack mule, feeling like an overworked, sweaty, filthy animal.

  I did wash up earlier, but it barely made a difference. It only took a few minutes before the sweat and armpit stench came right back.

  There’s no way I’m stepping back into civilization smelling like this. The first thing I’ll do when we reach the truck? Take a long shower.

  Otherwise, when a fan approaches me for an autograph, instead of nervously saying, Wow, you smell nice, she’ll be fighting the urge to pinch her nose shut.

  “You’re starting to get the hang of it,” Wally says, barely winded.

  The hang of what? Feeling like a dying mule on a pilgrimage to nowhere?

  “Having fun yet?” He shoots me a crooked grin. His eyes shouldn’t look that damn cheerful. He’s insane. I’m about to collapse here. “It’s exhausting, but it’s fun,” he insists.

  “Yeah, a blast of a time.” My voice drips sarcasm. “There are fun parts. The walking’s fine. It’s the hauling, cleaning, and existing part that sucks.”

  Wally chuckles. “And you’re starting to get used to it.”

  “Camping and the vehicles? Maybe.”

  “You’re even getting used to Sam.”

  “He still pushes me away and tries to humiliate me with his comments, but I think it’s starting to bother me less.”

  Wally shrugs. “If it’s not bothering you as much, maybe he’s not the real reason you’re backing out the Johan’s Project.”

  I roll my eyes. “We’ve been over this. Everyone I know says doing this documentary is a career killer.”

  “Everyone you know plays it safe.” Wally’s voice gets quieter but sharper. “Following the herd won’t make you stand out.”

  “Now, are you seriously telling me to accept? What changed?”

  “I’m saying it’s your call. But don’t pretend you’re saying no because of Sam. That’s bullshit.”

  “Why does that matter?”

  “So you don’t lie to yourself later and blame him for it. If someone asks in the future, you won’t use Sam as your main excuse for not accepting?”

  I exhale hard through my nose. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “You sure? Not even if the documentary becomes a hit, people find out you turned it down, and ask why? That’s already happened before. That indie film — you blamed the Gina thing.”

  I groan. “That wasn’t the same. Jess didn’t trust Gina. They had a falling out.”

  “Right. But that wasn’t your fight.”

  “There were issues. Gina was all over me at auditions. Not professional.”

  Wally snorts. “So Jess got jealous?”

  “No — I was avoiding drama. Gina wanted to stir shit up to get back at Jess. She thought Jess had stolen her boyfriend. They weren’t even together when Jess got with him.”

  “Still messy.”

  “Messy isn’t the same as wrong.”

  Wally raises his hands in surrender. “Didn’t say it was.”

  “Whatever. Gina was trouble. My agent agreed. Better to walk away than get dragged into a scandal.”

  “Sure. But this documentary’s not that. You really think Sam’s the biggest obstacle here?”

  “It’s more than Sam.” I adjust the box I’m carrying, wincing. My palms burn. “I’d have to learn the competition, the off-roading, the vehicles — all while figuring out how to exist without a script. It’s half reality show. Unpredictable. Messy. It’s complicated.”

  “People like messy.”

  “People like controlled messy. This would be me, raw and unfiltered. No script to hide behind. One wrong word, one stupid moment, and I’m done. People love building you up just to watch you crash.”

  Wally nods like he gets it — but then he smirks. “Yeah. Or they love watching you fight back. If Sam keeps acting like an ass, you come out looking like the underdog. People eat that up.”

  “Great. I get to be the pathetic underdog.”

  “Or the badass who wins despite the odds.”

  I bark out a laugh, more breath than sound. “Or the guy who screws up so bad he gets canceled.”

  “Sam won’t help you. That’s good for the story. He becomes the villain, and you’re the guy everyone roots for.”

  “Yeah… I guess.” I hate that it makes sense. “He wouldn’t care if people hated him. He’d probably like it.”

  “Exactly.” Wally grins again. “It’s a win-win. Worst case? He gets canceled. You walk away looking like the guy who tried to put up with him.”

  “Still risky.” I sigh, shifting the weight of the box. “Not just for my career — for my life. Did you forget Daniel nearly died on this thing? Johan stopped Sam from going because it’s dangerous.”

  Wally snorts. “You learned how to rock climb without a safety harness for one damn movie scene. You’re not scared of a little danger.

  “It’s not the same.”

  Wally gives me a sideways look. “So what are you really scared of?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but the truth lodges in my throat, too heavy to spit out. I exhale sharply, adjusting the box in my arms as if the weight of it is the real problem.

  “I’d have to learn all about the competition, suffer through off-roading, understand the vehicles…” I trail off, shaking my head. “But it’s not really that.”

  Wally stays quiet, waiting.

  “It’s the exposure,” I admit, my voice low and rough. “In my movies, I’m a character. Scripted. Controlled. People love the version of me they’re supposed to see — the charming lead, the action hero, the heartthrob. But this project? That’s me. No edits. No second takes. Just… me. Unfiltered. Unscripted.”

  I swallow hard, the words spilling faster now, like I’ve cracked something open. “God, I have no idea how to talk in a reality-documentary setting. I’ll be filmed 24/7, and every second of that footage is potential ammo. One wrong word, one stupid moment — hell, one bad facial expression — and I’m done. It’s not just about being filmed. It’s about being dissected.”

  I take a shaky breath, eyes locked on the dirt path ahead. “Imagine a surgeon’s scalpel, but instead of flesh, they’re cutting into my reputation. One wrong move and I’m not an actor anymore — I’m a cautionary tale. Another pretty face who got too full of himself and crashed. They won’t see me as human. They’ll see me as content.”

  My throat tightens. “What if I show a side of myself I don’t even know is there? What if the world decides they hate that version of me? I’ve seen it happen. Reality shows chew people up and spit them out because they cried at the wrong time, laughed at the wrong joke, and looked bad under the wrong lighting. And those are just normal people. I’m supposed to be more than that. I’m supposed to be untouchable.”

  I pause, adjusting my grip on the box, wincing as my palms burn against the plastic. Ahead of us, a hawk circles lazily in the sky, completely unbothered by our earthly problems.

  “The unscripted parts. That’s me, talking about how I handle challenges and interact with the other participants. I’ll be facing obstacles I’m not prepared for, and I have zero idea how to deal with them.”

  We climb over a fallen log, and I nearly lose my balance. Sweat drips into my eyes, stinging. I blink it away, readjusting the weight of the box against my hip.

  “And the only other person there who could possibly offer any support would be Sam.” I let out a bitter laugh, dry and hollow. “An antisocial, unfriendly guy who’d probably throw me off a cliff before offering a hand. Every interaction feels like I’m walking through a minefield.”

  Wally carefully asks again, voice softer this time. “So what are you really scared of?”

  I stare at the dirt path ahead. My throat feels tight. “…That people won’t like the real me.”

  The confession hangs there, raw and exposed. For a second, neither of us says anything. Wally doesn’t try to fix it. He nods, not pushing — like he understands more than he’s letting on. His silence speaks more than words ever could.

  “He’s coming,” Wally warns, hearing a motorcycle speeding toward us. “You go first.”

  Finally, I drop the box, stretching my aching fingers, shaking out my burning hands and rolling my shoulders. Dust kicks up as Sam swings around the corner, parks without a glance my way. His eyes flick over me once, dismissive as ever, then land on Wally. His face stays unreadable.

  The knot in my chest tightens, but it’s a dull ache now — familiar. Whatever I did to make him hate me, it’s locked in stone. I give up trying to figure it out.

  With a resigned sigh, I step back, absently rubbing the tension in my neck. And just like that, I remember why this whole thing feels impossible. It’s because of him — this exhaustion, the stench, the pain. He’s turned the temple of my body into my own personal purgatory on this trip, worn out, sore, and reeking. Following him only brings trouble, and I knew this would happen.

  Down here, the hawk still circles overhead, so indifferent, so free. I envy the hell out of that bird. Unlike me, trapped in this exhausted body, caught between opportunities and fears, between the role I play and the person I might accidentally reveal.

  This project is genuinely risky for my career. But for someone who wants to reinvent himself — to prove he’s more than just a pretty face — fear that people won’t like the real me, shouldn’t be the thing holding me back. It’s not the same as people disliking my performance outside my usual typecast, but even so, that kind of fear shouldn’t be the main reason to turn this down. After all, every project I take on ends up touching on this issue in some way — and in a project this far outside my mold, it’ll only be more pronounced.