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“Who’s ‘they’?”

He slides his glasses onto his nose. “Yes, yes. That’s why you’re here. But first, I need you to sign this NDA.”

He skids a document across the table.

I pick it up and read. “‘Except as otherwise provided in the Agreement, Wild Planet must not disclose the Confidential Information included in this document by Movie Night Live, with the exception of the identified members of their team.’ Ben, what the fuck is going on?”

“Keep reading and sign the damn thing, Charlee, and I’ll explain the whole caboodle.”

I skim a few pages, landing on the list of what the agreement considers “confidential information.”

“My location, the parties present, any material used, any information discussed during meetings, any filming-related matters?” I slam the document down. Not this shit again. “Ben.”

“Sign. It.”

Last year, Ben was in touch with some execs from a multibillion-dollar streaming service. The deal fell through before we even got a chance to celebrate because one of my stupid-ass colleagues had run his mouth off to anyone willing to listen. When the streaming platform heard about it, they ended our contract, no explanation necessary. We’d fucked up big time.

I know that Ben has been trying to diversify the company’s income streams because revenue has been shrinking over the years, but this is starting to look a little obsessive.

“Why do you keep booking me for TV gigs?” I whine. “I’m a print journalist! Ask someone else. Claudia loves that shit.”

“They don’t want someone else, Charlee. They specifically requested you after they saw the videos you made on the fires in Australia.”

“And who showed them those, huh?” I mumble. “It was material for my articles, not an audition tape.”

I have a feeling I’m going to regret it, but I sign the document with a sigh. I need to know what he got himself into. Actually, what he got us into.

“There.”

“Thank you,” he says, like he was holding his breath the whole time. “We finally have a way out of the financial mess we’re in, Charlee. And I made damn sure to keep my mouth shut this time so only the people involved are in the know. And as you can see,” he nods toward the NDA, “I’m not even taking chances with those who are.”

“Indeed, Ben. Indeed.”

“So, here’s the deal. We’re sending you to British Columbia this Friday. You’ll be there for two weeks with a filming crew from Movie Night Live to make a docuseries on the Great Bear Rainforest and the impact climate change is having on it. Don’t worry,” he adds when he sees my arched eyebrow. “They put their most experienced team on this project. People who are used to venturing into wild places like that. It won’t be like the coyotes’ news report you did two years ago with that awfully inexperienced local station.”

The Great Bear Rainforest.

The words linger in my mind. I used to know someone who loved that place with all his heart. Someone who was supposed to show me the beauty of British Columbia.

“Am I gonna have any training before I leave?” I ask, shifting my attention back to Ben and what matters. “And there are a lot of Indigenous communities living in the area. Do we have the okay to cross their lands?”

Ben shifts in his seat. “I’m working on it. Everything will be in order by the time you get there. As for training, you will be paired with a BC-based Wild Planet reporter who holds a wilderness & remote first aid certification and will provide the necessary gear and preparation for you and the rest of the team.” At my look, he adds. “We need to spare every expense we can, Charlee. If the guy can lead the team through the forest, we’ll use it to our advantage.”

I sit back, just enough to relax my tense shoulders. “So let me get this straight. You’re sending me to the other side of the country with a film crew that cornered me into signing an NDA prohibiting me from disclosing my location. There’s not enough time to prepare properly. And I’m being forced to rely on and trust some local journalist turned rescuer who found their certification in a cereal box, instead of having a real guide accompany us like we always do. Am I missing anything?”

I can’t keep my question from dripping with sarcasm, but he should know better.

We usually receive a week’s worth of briefings on our next assignment’s locations, and those are planned months in advance. Then we go through multiple safety protocols, which are long and boring. Only then do we get to hop on a plane.

Don’t get me wrong, if I could skip half of it, I’d jump at the chance. There’s nothing I love more than the thrill of being faced with the unknown. But when I’m working, I’m not only putting myself in danger. There’s a whole crew behind me—coordinators, photographers, equipment handlers. Not to mention the local help we usually enroll to guide us and provide useful information on the environment. A lot of people count on me to keep them out of harm’s way, and as much as I don’t mind being careless with my own safety, I’m not about to compromise theirs. And now I’m suddenly supposed to accept that we’re throwing our protocols out the window just because a film crew decided to dictate the rules?

Hell no.

Ben puts his hands up. “Listen, Charlee. Truth is, we need the money. You and I both know that the future of print media isn’t looking good. We have to appeal to younger audiences and look at partnerships that can keep us afloat.”

I frown. “Keep us afloat?”

His silence is louder than whatever words he could have used. After what feels like an eternity, Ben clears his throat and stares right at me, almost pleading. “Wild Planet is implementing company-wide budget cuts. If you refuse to do this, they’ll close the Toronto branch. You’re our last hope, Charlee. I know it’s . . .”