It must be amazing to move through the world and not worry about bothering other people. To be enveloped by the silent woods, resting in bed, and still feel entitled to moan and shriek so that neighbors miles away might hear you. Joke’s on Shea Davison, because no one lives within a good forty miles of us out here. She can carry on as much as she wants.

That’s a lot of hostility rising in my chest. I force myself to pause and take a deep breath. I inhale and count each of my fingers, exhale and count each of my fingers. Just like the therapist Helen hired taught me to do. Shea Davison doesn’t know any better. She doesn’t understand all I’ve put into planning. Celebrity has spoiled her. Shea Davison needs this retreat.

I’ve intercepted her from becoming a useless influencer just in time. It’s a natural development, after all. Someone spends that much time staring into a reflective surface, polishing their appearance, and editing their own image, their worldview shrinks. They only see themselves. Not even themselves—the fake Instagram version they’ve cultivated for likes and followers.

I’ve arranged time for Shea and me to step back, to connect with nature, to remember what we love about dance, and to grow a little as a team.

The therapist would point out that I need to accept the ways that yesterday did not live up to my expectations. I’m grieving the image of Shea that I held up as some kind of unrealistic standard. I did prepare for that, though; I understood she wouldn’t be exactly the same.

You can see it easily if you study her videos the way I have. Her mannerisms adjust slightly; the way she speaks to her followers has shifted. It used to feel like Shea was talking one-on-one to me alone, like she was a friend on FaceTime or recording a video to lift me up from the gloom of Sonny’s bunker.

More and more she sounds like a teacher in front of a classroom. She lectures, she goes on about wellness and resilience as if she’s ever survived anything more than a power outage on International Dance Day. The more the number of followers listed in the corner of her channel has risen, the less relatable Shea has grown.

Her venom surprised me. The way she spoke to me as if I don’t matter. That took me aback. Her dismissal.

But people react to change in all sorts of ways. I know that. Right now, Shea Davison may not deserve my devotion, but I value my own ability to look past that. If I let her get to me, if I take her shortcomings personally, then I’m relinquishing my own power. And I’ve put so much work into this retreat.

Besides, I believe that Shea Davison will come around. So I breathe in again, count fingers, breathe out. I do my best to tune out the ruckus she’s causing in her bedroom. I turn my attention back to the studio.

It’s almost exactly how I pictured. It took a few trips to Home Depot. At first, I went about it too literally trying to re-create the exact colors that Shea uses for her video. But without paint names, it was impossible. Knowing Shea now, I understand that if Behr or Benjamin Moore or whoever had given her a promotional cut, she would have shared out the shades. But she seems to think that her backdrops are somehow emblematic of her channel, as if she’s the first teenage girl to enthusiastically embrace pastel colors.

After a few attempts, I realized I was going about it all wrong. The goal was a studio for a new chapter in Shea’s journey. Exact replicas of her background would just invite comparisons. They wouldn’t inspire growth.

Not to mention, I needed a way to create a smooth backdrop. The log cabin would look like a log cabin, no matter what color paint I used. That’s where all those trips wandering around the paint section of Home Depot paid off. Because I discovered canvas drop cloths, and canvas drop cloths are game-changing.

So I made some choices. I painted one cloth a pale yellow and one a light turquoise. I went with a pink maybe a few shades darker than the one Shea used. She’s going to miss the mint green. But I used that color on the studio floor. When we film our footwork, that will provide a terrific callback to Shea’s earlier performances.

I’m pretty sure I ordered the exact same strand lights; everyone uses those. They don’t count as trademark Shea Davison or anything. I also found reams of cotton batting to create some interest. Between those elements and the two ring lights, I don’t see what else Shea could possibly wish for in a mobile studio.

It takes me three trips to carry the drop cloths and the rest of the supplies from Sonny’s truck. I climb onto the small cupboard and drill two hooks into the cabin walls. It would be easier work for two, but I can’t trust Shea to contribute yet. Besides, I want the reveal to feel special for both of us. Maybe that’s an opportunity to turn things around between us. She’ll see how much care I’ve taken in creating a space for her work.

Another way to restore the spirit is through good food. Shea’s racket continues, but I don’t let it distract me. One flick of the kitchen transistor radio and instead I hear some boy band from the sixties crooning about California girls. She needs nourishment. I fold my arms in front of me the way I’ve seen my sister do, head cocked to listen to the ungrateful screams of someone who should just settle down and rest.

Then I open a can of tomato soup and pour it in a small pot. I take out the cast-iron pan and butter two cheese sandwiches for grilling. The cabin’s kitchen isn’t spectacular, but it should serve our purposes, provided Shea doesn’t expect anything too elaborate.

The issue of medicine stresses me out. The way she’s still howling, Shea must be in serious pain. No doubt she’s compounded her injury by tugging so stubbornly at those handcuffs, but I don’t want her to suffer, for goodness’ sake.

Pills are tricky, though. I don’t know how to make someone my size swallow a pill. I’ve seen Helen give the boys cold syrup plenty of times, however. And I’m prepared. I understood there would be a risk of injury during transport.

If I’ve done the math correctly, then forty milligrams of children’s ibuprofen should at least take the edge off. I heat the kettle and make some instant apple cider and mix the medicine in with it. She doesn’t even realize she’s so spoiled.

“Please, Nora, help me.” Her voice scratches against the wooden door of the back bedroom like an animal wearing down its talons. Look at that, I think to myself. Shea Davison remembers my name.

I carry the tray gingerly because soup is hot and first impressions are important. Today is an opportunity for a fresh slate.

The tray would please anyone. Tomato soup and grilled cheese is a crowd pleaser. I’ve included the mug of hot cider and even a napkin. The tray weighs heavily in my hands and the steam from the hot liquids rises to my face. The therapist would tell me, You can’t control someone else’s actions, but you can control your reactions. That’s what I repeat to myself as I bump the bedroom door open with my knee.

Shea half crouches in the bed, with her arm twisted in an ugly direction. Her hair’s matted on one side and her face is streaked with tears. She’d been mid-scream when I opened the door. Now her mouth hangs open, panting.

“Hey there,” I say. “You’ve gotten yourself really worked up.” I approach carefully, because you never know how people will react in unique situations. “You okay?”

“No, I am not okay. I am handcuffed to a bed. My arm—it’s really hurt. You need to let me go now. Listen, Nora—it’s Nora, right? I won’t say anything to anyone. You don’t even need to drive me all the way back to Puyallup, you can just uncuff me. I can walk to a busy road. I can call my mom to pick me up. Hey, Nora, by any chance did you pick up my cell phone? When I met you at the fair? Could I get that back? I need to call my mom now.”

Clearly, Shea Davison has watched the same episodes of Criminal Minds that I have. She’s talking very fast but hitting all the crucial points: using my name, establishing rapport, mentioning her mom, appearing nonthreatening, and finally describing an easy de-escalation plan that does not involve the authorities.

I ignore it all and say, “I brought you some grilled cheese and tomato soup—a classic menu choice for building back strength.” My hands shake despite themselves and the dishes rattle on the tray. It annoys me; this isn’t the time to act all starstruck. I set the tray on the desk and pull the desk over just a bit so that Shea can reach it from the bed. She doesn’t seem to fully appreciate how I’m considering every detail of her comfort.

She says, “That’s so kind of you, Nora, but I need to get home.”

“There’s also a mug of hot apple cider. Between that and the bowl of soup, I’m hoping lunch will really cut through this chill. It’s colder up in the mountains. You might need to get used to the damp.”

“Nora, you seem familiar to me. Have we met before?”

I remember how intimidated I felt at the dance studio. Back then I couldn’t even make eye contact with Shea—my nerves interfered with everything. It felt like I’d tilted my whole life to align with her orbit and she doesn’t even have a clear memory of that meeting. It’s to be expected, I remind myself. I’m certainly going to matter to her now.

“Your lunch will get cold—all this chitchat. We’ll have lots of time to talk, but right now you need to keep your strength up.” I shake my finger at her. “And you need to stop bending and pulling that wrist. You could do some serious damage, Shea.”

“My wrist is really swollen, and these cuffs are cutting off the circulation.”

“That’s why you should drink the cider,” I instruct. She looks up quizzically. “There’s children’s ibuprofen in it.”

“You spiked the apple cider?” There’s the petulant influencer, right under the surface.

“I wouldn’t use that phrase, no. Spiked implies sneaking; I just told you about it.”

“You didn’t when you first brought in the tray.” Shea’s already slipping—she’s stopped using my name. She’s being needlessly argumentative. The behavioral unit would not be impressed.

“Ibuprofen is an anti-inflammatory. It will help with the swelling. And the pain.”

“You could uncuff me.” She remembers her manners and her mind games. “Nora, please just uncuff me. My arm—it hurts a lot. I’m worried it could be really injured.”

“Oh, it’s injured, all right. You stuck it right in front of the door as I closed it.”

“Well, gosh, I’m sorry I was so clumsy while you were kidnapping me.”

I refuse to engage with snarkiness. “Let’s make sure we’re clear about the situation, Shea. We’re at least ninety miles from any hospital or medical clinic. If we have emergencies, we’re expected to handle them ourselves. You keep rubbing that wrist, thinking somehow you’re graceful enough to dance your way out of a set of regulation handcuffs? I’d guess we have three days before infection sets in. Here’s what that will feel like: Your wrist will feel hot all around the wound. Then you’ll see streaks radiating onto the skin surrounding it. If we let infection fester, then yes, you can expect to experience some nerve damage. But I figure that’s the least of it. If I were you, I’d be more worried about gangrene. Do you know what gangrene is?”

“I’ve heard of it.” The bluster’s blown out of her voice. Shea sounds scared again.

I refuse to let up. “Your skin rots. At some point, the only treatment option is amputation.”

I watch her eyes move around the room. They take in all the details. They search for an exit. She moves ever so slightly, but the handcuffs give her away. They stretch taut, toward the door. The silver metal glints in the light streaming from the window.

I move the desk chair so that it blocks the path between the bed and the door. “I know this is unexpected for you. I’ve been planning this working retreat for a while, but maybe the surprise has thrown you for a little bit of a loop. I don’t want us to get off on the wrong foot—we have a lot to learn from each other.”

Shea’s eyes well up with tears. “Nora, please.” She practically whimpers. “Please just let me go home. No one will know. I’ll just show up on a road; I’ll say I don’t remember anything. Please. People will have started looking for me.”

It’s weird—when you have someone chained in your country cabin, your feelings veer all over the place. Shea makes me nervous and angry. Her lack of cooperation outrages me. But I feel sorry for her too. She doesn’t see her own circumstances very clearly.

“Of course they will have,” I tell her. “People will have organized search parties by now. Because you’re their meal ticket, right? All those Shea Davison promotional tie-ins and endorsements. But you have to know they don’t actually care about you. Look at your latest videos. You’re not dancing with love and light anymore; you’re just cashing checks. I’ve followed you from the beginning and, Shea, I had to step in. You’ve been fading in front of all of us.”

The tears run down Shea’s face now. Apparently, I’ve struck a nerve. I make my tone more gentle and say, “Let’s just make the best of the time we have together. We can talk about the best way to get you back to the main road when it’s time. Once we’ve accomplished our goals and reminded folks back home that maybe they shouldn’t drain the life out of you. They shouldn’t take you for granted. And in the meantime, goodness! Let’s take care of you. Could you at least try to eat a little bit? That way the medicine won’t irritate your stomach. And the medicine will help, Shea. Once you start feeling more like yourself, I think you’ll see this as a real opportunity.”

Her face shudders with a sob but she nods. She gets it. Shea Davison is a true talent and I’m sure she recognizes a chance to develop her craft when she has a modernized log cabin as a unique TikTok setting right in front of her.

“Great. That’s just great. Now let’s try to avoid pulling at that right arm. If you just sit back in bed, I’ll prop the pillow behind you.”

Shea follows my directions carefully. She clearly has come to appreciate that I am a detail-oriented planner who looks out for her every interest.

“Well done.” I applaud everything she does, in the same bright voice that Helen uses with my nephews. “Now I’m just going to set this breakfast tray over your lap. You’ll need to use your left hand to eat. The soup might prove challenging but look—I’ve brought plenty of napkins. And it’s still warm! You got it?” She nods. The spoon moves carefully and sloshes just a little. I dab at her chin with her napkin and don’t acknowledge when she flinches. “Of course you’ve got it, you’re doing great. Could you drink some of the cider too? It will help with the pain.” Her left hand trembles as it sets down the spoon and picks up the mug. “Let me know if I need to reheat anything—that’s no trouble at all.” But Shea doesn’t answer me. She sips the cider carefully. I keep having to snap myself out of it—I know I must be staring, but part of me cannot believe Shea Davison is sitting in front of me, slurping tomato soup and sipping cider. The cup rattles slightly when she returns it to the tray. “Don’t forget the sandwich. I’m going to get some salve to rub on your wrist, okay? That will help prevent infection—so important. You just keep eating.”

And she does. I almost think it’s a trick. I keep waiting for her to slam the mug of cider up into my jaw and make a break for the bedroom door. But Shea Davison sits there in the cabin bedroom calmly, occasionally sniffling but generally eating her grilled cheese and tomato soup. I bring two tubes of ointment over to the opposite bedside. I work to keep my own breathing even.

Sometimes my own nervousness infuriates me.

There’s a second, when I move closer to Shea, and stand at the farthest point from the door, that she looks up and stops chewing. She stares at the bedroom door and her eyes dart ever so quickly to her cuffed right arm.

I reach for her hurt arm gently, but she still winces. “This salve has geranium extract in it,” I tell her. “And then this one is good old-fashioned Neosporin. Because you can’t go wrong with that, right?” She nods and sucks her teeth a little. It must sting.

I examine her raw wrist carefully. It’s a furious red and oozes clear liquid. “Looks pretty good,” I lie. When she’s reduced to an injury I’m caring for, she’s not so intimidating. My knees stop knocking and my voice sounds more normal. Shea doesn’t seem interested in my burgeoning sense of calm or her own healing progress. She barely looks at the bandage I’ve wrapped around her arm. Instead she stares listlessly around the room. “Well, we’ve taken care of your arm and made sure you’ve had a nutritious start to the day. I think we should aim for a little more rest.”

“Could you please just uncuff me? Nora, I’ll just sit quietly in bed here. We can talk; we can talk about videos and TikTok.”

I don’t even bother with an answer. I just shake my head. So disappointing.

I pick up the tray.

“Wait.” Her voice sounds panicked, desperate. I don’t wait. “Nora, please.”

I keep my tone gruff. Shea needs to learn she can’t manipulate me. Shea’s probably not very used to that.

“Get some rest,” I say, closing off the conversation along with the bedroom door. My patient has settled back into her bed. She can’t have fallen asleep already, but at least her arm lies flat on the bed and not twisted as if she’s trying to wrench it off. I lean back against the door and listen for any telltale rustle. But she stays still in there. Then I go about tidying. I’m holding her plate over the garbage can and about to scrape the crusts of her sandwich into the trash when I realize: Those are Shea Davison’s grilled cheese crusts. Her bite marks on the bread.

Like any fangirl worth her salt, I put the crusts in a Tupperware and store them in the refrigerator. As I’m cleaning the dishes, the transistor radio plays softly, and I catch myself humming along with the songs. Chores feel different when you’re running a household. Shea’s cell phone rests on the counter and vibrates against the Formica like a constant chorus. All those parasites refusing to give her a chance to rest. She has no clue how much she needs me.

If I were to build the Shea Davison Museum, I could display her grilled cheese crusts in a glass case. Her cell phone, however, would definitely be the main attraction. The key to her online kingdom is heavier than my own phone in my hand. It’s as if all the people calling and texting Shea lend it more weight. Or maybe the thousands and thousands of pics and reels she’s got saved contribute to its heft. Even as I’m holding it, it vibrates and I see a message pop up: Where are you? Just text. We’ll figure all this out.

Shea uses a mint-green case, of course—that’s very on-brand. And, of course, she employs a lock screen. I stand at the shut bedroom door and listen hard. Shea’s not sniffling or snoring. She doesn’t make any noise at all.

The doorknob squeaks as I turn it. When I push the door itself open, the wood groans against its hinge. None of that wakes Shea Davison. She sleeps on her back, with her head curled into her hurt arm. Her other arm rests along her side.

My mother’s old quilt covers Shea’s legs and tangles around her waist. She sighs in her sleep. Her eyelids flutter.

When I reach for her hand, I feel afraid for reasons I can’t name. I worry Shea will wake. And scream. I dislike being startled so I brace myself for her to yelp or yank her hand back. She does none of that.

I hold out her phone and maneuver her thumb to fit onto the screen—just like I watched her unlock it at the studio that night, checking her calendar for the booking note.

The phone’s screen lights up. I take a step back and quickly open the settings and reprogram the code. I choose my mom’s middle name as a password: Jordan. Strong, solid, and nothing Shea would come near guessing. This is a service I can provide to her—the gift of time away, time to regroup and recover. I know Shea’s posting history better than anyone, probably better than her. There’s no way Shea rewatches her videos or studies every detail of every post. Not like I do. So I feel more than qualified to step in and post in her stead. I’ll keep the channel moving forward in a fresh and compelling way. And maybe new material will slow the deluge of texts and calls rolling in while we’re up here at the cabin. Her fans will feel taken care of; her family and friends will see that Shea’s just fine.

She whimpers in her sleep and I nearly drop her phone on the wooden planks of the cabin floor. I back up and out of the room quickly. It feels powerful to hold the green Samsung in my hand and have access to Shea’s channel with the push of just a few buttons. It also feels like pressure.

I settle on a simple shot. When I hauled her into the cabin, one of her shoes dragged off. I pulled the other off myself and tossed it on top of its mate in the corner of the front room. Now I arrange the sneakers more deliberately. I tie the laces in perfect knots and position the left shoe so that it’s balanced on the right.

I add the California filter and a text box: Ready to dance again soon! It doesn’t qualify as groundbreaking, but it’s a start. It buys Shea and me some time as we learn how to support each other, as she learns to trust and rely on me.