Another knock, this time louder, followed by a few harder bangs. Insistent. Unignorable. Jarring. I blow out my meditation candle but leave the Palo Santo smoking, and stand. My body is stiff as I unfold myself, my joints creak and snap. I must have been sitting for at least thirty minutes.

Hand on the doorknob, I brace myself because something tells me that I don’t want to greet whoever I’m not expecting at the other side of the door. I’m three hours from Cusco, and the last mile here is up a rocky, bumpy road through a field of llamas. Any visitor would have to point their 4×4 southeast and trust their GPS until my cabin appears perched on a ridge that overlooks the expansive valley and tiny Urubamba river town beneath it.

No one I know would come here.

The sun blinds me as I swing open the door. I squint into the intense light, startling at how close and strong it feels beaming over the tall broad shoulders blocking the doorway.

“Hunter,” the man huffs with a ragged inhale and squeezes my shoulder. He takes an uninvited step inside, and his face emerges from the shadows.

Ice-blue eyes meet mine. There’s only one person I’ve ever known with eyes like those. My stomach sinks, and my heart lightens as I wrap my arms around the man I’ve known for almost a dozen years. We roughly hug.

“Jerry,” I gruff. He’s hot, sticky, and when I release him, I notice the perspiration dripping from his forehead and upper lip. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I was going to ask the same of you,” he wheezes. Delicate red veins decorate the whites of his eyes. The deep lines around his mouth are drawn tight. An unhealthy plum hue colors his too shallow-looking cheekbones. Eyes bulging, he presses a hand to his forehead, edges by me, and sinks into the couch in front of the fire blazing in the hearth. “Shit. This country is unbearable.”

“When did you arrive?” I place a teapot on the fireplace stove and stoke the flames higher.

He peaks over his hand, looking a mint green. “I flew to Cusco this morning from Los Angeles and then drove here.”

“Are you crazy?” I place some herbs and coca leaves in mugs. “It’s almost 14,000 feet above sea level here.”

“Yeah, I’m crazy, and I feel like shit. I’m fucking tired.” A shaking hand clutches his chest “Is this a heart attack? My heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my throat. A panic attack?”

“It’s altitude sickness, you idiot. You can’t fly from sea level to almost 12,000 feet, and then drive 2,000 more feet up in one day and expect your body to keep up. You’re supposed to acclimate and that means taking your time. Something you obviously still don’t know how to do. ” I huff. “There’s barely oxygen here by your standards. Your body is going into shock.”

“What if I have no time to give?” he gripes.

I laugh. “You haven’t changed.”

“I haven’t had time for it.” He says with a wryness that makes me laugh a little harder.

“Or the fucks either,” I add for him.

“Obviously,” he wheezes.

I pour the boiling water in the mugs and add a slice of lime. “Drink this. Sip slowly. It’s hot.” I watch him bring the steaming mug to his lips. “When you’re done, chew on the leaves, too”

He obliges, sipping as he gazes around my cabin place while I adjust to my friend sitting in its center. I haven’t had contact with anyone from the life he represents in over a year. The last time I saw him, I had sold everything and bought my ticket to Cusco. We had coffee the morning before my flight, and he tried to convince me not to go. He insisted that I had built too much to walk away from and that everything would get better if I gave it time.

An empty, sinking, gripping emotion tremors over me that feels a lot like I did when I left. I swallow and bury my nose in the steaming tea. I’d like to forget it.

“This place is not as bad as I thought it would be.” He waves an approving hand at my modest kitchen, the embroidered pillows, and the spectacular valley view. “Everyone back home thinks you are sleeping in a one-room shack on a dirt floor with a bunch of llamas and sheep.” His giggle is strangled, and he closes his eyes.

“What are you doing here?” My exasperation feels so much better than thinking about the past.

“Did you know that there’s no way to contact you but to show up on your front doorstep?” His adam’s apple bobs as he takes a too-long sip of tea. It should be scalding, but he doesn’t flinch.

“I like it that way.” I narrow my eyes and cross my arms. I didn’t tell anyone from his life that I have a satellite phone. I just spoke to my brother last week. Everything is fine in Bozeman.

“But you never know when someone needs you.” He fingers the mug, drags up some leaves, sucks them between his teeth, and chews.

“If that someone is you, it could only mean trouble.” I feel a little ill. I will kill him if this about some petty scuffling between executives. “You’re a good friend, but…”

“You can’t hide forever,” he chastises. His broad chest rises, and his glassy eyes flash. A normal flesh color returns to his cheeks. All signs that the coca medicine is working.

“This better be good, Jerry,” I warn him.

“As if I would do this to myself if it wasn’t.” He snorts. “It’s about The Peak”

I freeze, and my stomach contracts into a heavy iron fist. My bestselling novel I wrote ten years ago. It’s a hit musical on Broadway and London. For a long time it was my creative life force and my inspired baby. What could be wrong with it?

“And?” The word slips through my gritted teeth.

He spits a leaf into his hand and wipes it on his pants. “The studio changed their mind and wants to make a feature film movie.” He sucks in a long breath. “Since you have been so blissfully MIA and unreachable, the Baker brothers are about to sign Peter Striker as the screenwriter and director.”

“What. The. Hell.” An urge to puke into my mug overwhelms me. “That over-producing glam-boy who prizes mindless shock value over true storytelling?” I stand and shake my arms out as an icky, defiled feeling encircles me. “He’s All. Fucking. Ego.”

“Peter wants to revise it, and his vision is compelling,” Jerry confirms thinly. His eyes are bright as he adds, “He wants Sophia to be the lead. Everyone loves the idea.”

“No!” I gag. Nausea shutters through me and my mug shatters on the ground. Hot liquid and wet leaves scatter everywhere. Not Sophia. My vision blurs. “This is a nightmare.”

“I know.” Looking vindicated, Jerry’s sage-like nod is followed by a slow, mischievous grin. “And in that case, you have four weeks to submit your counterproposal.”

Shit, I have to go back.