FADE IN: EXT. NORTH CASCADES NATIONAL PARK, TRAILHEAD PARKING LOT, EARLY MORNING A gravel lot at the end of a two-lane forest road. The tree line starts forty yards from the asphalt edge. It is 5:47 AM and the light is the specific gray-gold that comes before full sun clears the eastern ridge. Two trucks: a dark green Forest Service pickup and a black Tacoma, both with gear beds. Eight people in various states of readiness. The operation is efficient without being hurried. These are people who have done this before. NORA ENFIELD (18) is at the rear of the Tacoma, pulling tool bags from the bed with the economy of someone who knows exactly what is in each one and exactly where it needs to go. She is lean and deliberate, her dark hair in a braid under a faded buff, her trail pants worn at the right knee from what appears to be a recurring habit of kneeling. She does not announce herself. She does not need to. TOM ENFIELD (48) stands near the tailgate of the Forest Service pickup with a laminated topo map folded to the relevant section and a printed gear manifest. He runs down the list with the specific concentration of a person checking something important, not performing checking. He is compact, sun-lined around the eyes, the kind of person who looks most comfortable in places where the nearest road is at least three miles away. 1