You’d think at some point she’d be used to ending up on the ground.

The call came in as River started her first trek down the stretch of highway they were filming on. Easton was a few miles down the road, and whatever he was doing back there was working. Two cars had gone past already, and other than slowing down for safety—and to gawk—no one had stopped.

“This is River,” she answered through her headset, glancing at the Anchorage number on her phone.

“River, it’s Mischa. We need to talk.”

“Usually that means someone’s about to break up with me.” River hoped her pleasant, joking tone would carry over to the woman on the other end of the line. Mischa was their contact for the Alaskan Tourism Board.

The job had seemed so cut and dried over the phone. But in the last couple of days, more doors had literally been shut in her face than River had ever experienced in her life. She had a mark on her nose to prove it.

“I’ve gotten a few complaint calls from the hotel manager at Moose Springs Resort.” Mischa sighed, sounding tired. “They said you’ve been filming there without permission?”

“It’s not exactly what happened…” River hesitated.

“They said you frightened a guest.”

“No, the black bear we were filming frightened the guest. We accidentally scared it, which in turn almost got the guest trampled. It was kind of a domino effect.”

The silence on the other end of the phone wasn’t encouraging.

“Everyone was okay,” River added, trying to downplay the incident. “And we’re getting some fabulous shots off the highway as we speak. Legal shots too. They can’t keep us from filming on the road.”

The other woman sighed. “Moose Springs folk were never ones to let a camera crew in town. The resort doesn’t even want you on the property anymore, and they were always the most laid-back about this kind of thing. Listen, I’m sorry, River. If this isn’t working, we need to cut our losses and move on.”

A fake expression of contented determination stayed on River’s face because that was what the camera above her on the hill required. She was a professional. She would not rip her mic out and start screaming from sheer frustration.

“No, Mischa. Please don’t do this. We’ve only gotten started. I have permits,” River insisted. “I just don’t have them. I’m working on it.”

Another car went past, the driver and her passenger cracking up. That was the third vehicle in a row with visibly amused occupants. Focused on her phone call, River ignored them.