Rocky Balboa is my prepper, and as his thoughts burrow in, I pull out my phone and open the voice recorder app.
It’s a financial retreat, I reason with him. Think of all that Patagonia. They’re probably discussing tax strategies. Chanting about IRAs.
Whatever. Recording is silly, but in some off, off chance… it might be genius.
When I get back the registration table is deserted. The greeter’s clearly joined whatever is happening beyond the main room’s closed double doors. I don’t hear any chanting, nor is candlelight flickering under the jamb. That’s something. I crack one door and slip inside.
Bart is back at the lectern. The two projector screens show the same slide: First to $1M.
“…what we’re all here for,” Bart is saying. “But we know who comes to The FI Escape. So of course we’ll select a winner, voted by this room, on three criteria: speed, likelihood of reaching one million dollars, and creative presentation. The winners will each take home five hundred bucks.”
The room buzzes. My own desperation hums in harmony. Five hundred dollars is more than this whole weekend cost.
“Invest that much monthly for thirty years,” Bart adds, “and you’ll find one way to a million.”
The room laughs. My jaw drops.
Maybe jumping Buck’s battery can wait. My pride and time are both worth less than the money I’ve just wasted. If I can earn that back… then I’ll go home, fire up a video on the actual art movement, and call it a win.
“Your partners are listed on this slide,” Bart says, clicking to a two-column list of names. “Go find a spot somewhere in this beautiful campground. Get to know each other. You have three hours, starting now. And oh! It’s been dry lately, so be aware there’s a fire watch in effect. No campfires while playing FIRE! Have fun!”
I squint up at the screen through my glasses, scanning for my name.
There it is. KAEL WRIGHT — ASHER PIERCE.
CHAPTER 6
ASH
Statistically,this shouldn’t happen. The retreat has fifty people, twenty-five teams, and I end up with the cute artist I publicly called out. I hover near the projection screen, clutching my backpack straps like a middle-schooler waiting for the teacher. When it rains lately, it doesn’t just pour; it cuts pay, demotes you, and hands you a bad-idea crush at a retreat you can’t afford to leave.
Who books a retreat without knowing what it is? Kael Wright, apparently.
“Hey, Bart.” I hurry over to the podium, catching him before he can get too far. “Great kickoff, man. Real quick. My partner…” I glance up at the slide. “I think I got the guy who left.”
Bart’s already fielding questions from another volunteer, but he gives them a quick instruction and turns to me. The room buzzes as partners start pairing off.
“What’s up?” he asks.
“My buddy’s supposed to be Kael.” I point toward the screen. “He’s that guy who… left? Guess he thought this was an art retreat?”
Bart chuckles. “I thought that was a joke.”
“I don’t think so. Is there somebody else…”
Bart points toward the back of the room. “Right there,” he says, then turns back to the next volunteer.
Kael is leaning against the back wall by the double doors with his crumpled sketchbook under one arm. His dimpled smile lights up when he sees me, a smile that could bankrupt stronger men. I classify the flutter in my chest as market noise and move on.
He’s dressed as the artist he actually is with paint-stained layers, frayed edges on a white sweatshirt, and a deliberate chaos that somehow works. His eyes glimmer, like they’re always spotting potential, even when it isn’t there. Especially when it isn’t there. That look pulls me closer.
“Thought you left,” I say.
“I promise it wasn’t your talk.”
I wave off the polite reassurance. “Did you really book the wrong retreat?”
“Thought so. Then I heard there’s a five-hundred-dollar prize?” A glint of mischief appears in his eyes. “Figure I have a shot, being paired with the kickoff speaker and all.”
