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Which should have been my first indicator that I had no idea what I was getting into.

In the novels, the six main characters were an ensemble piece, without any single one standing out above the rest. But when the entirety of the script was hand delivered to my apartment by a runner for the studio, sealed and marked confidential, I discovered the cast had been revised for the sake of filmmaking, and my own role amended. Previously, with only partial sides to go off of, it had been impossible to judge the complete weight of my part. But after a full read-through, I found the ensemble piece had been overhauled to highlight three main leads—the standout of which clearly belonged to me. Suddenly, instead of sharing top-billing with half a dozen equals in a film projected to be the first to reach the billion dollar mark its opening weekend, I found my role,Addison Riley, leading the cast.

Iwas the central hero.Iwas the principle focus, supported by a star-studded list of names.

It was horrifying.

I could hardly make eye-contact with Margaret Gilles, even when she rose to bypass my outstretched hand—fingers shaking—and kissed me on the cheek.

“You are brilliance personified, my dear.” Her midwestern accent held that gentle warble of a woman well past her prime. “L.R. was right—you’re everything I envisioned Addy to be.”

I stared at her, struck speechless. I was about to let this woman down. This woman who had held on to her principles in defense of her art. This master storyteller whose cherished words had transcended generations, captivating the minds of millions with the world she had built.

I managed a mumbled thank you—it was better thanboy, won’t you be disappointed, and took my seat.

I felt like the only nameless face in the room. If L.R. Sims wanted Addison Riley to be an unknown, he’d had the polar intention for the supporting cast. Aaron had called me a week prior—two headlining names had been leaked.

Grady Dunn.

Elliott Fleming.

Two of the hottest young actors working in the industry today.

Grady was a two-time Academy Award nominee, and had taken home the Oscar last year for his exquisite portrayal of Martin Luther King, Jr. in the film,King. A movie that had snagged every prestigious award the industry had to offer—including Best Picture. He was textbook handsome, and rumored to eat, sleep and breathe his characters from pre-to-post production, without a moment’s break in between.

And Elliott Fleming was just… Elliott Fleming. He was the Leonardo of my generation. An actor whose versatility rivaled the likes of Timothée Chalamet, Christian Bale, Edward Norton. He’d headlined three features in the last twelve months alone. There was nothing he couldn’t play. And from those who’d worked on set in his films, he was said to be charming, brilliant, sincere. Talented beyond comprehension.

Both men were established Hollywood elite.

They would play Noah and Oliver. Protagonist and antagonist. The love triangle of the story.

Grady. Elliott. Andme.

And until I saw Margaret Gilles, they had been my paramount concern—the terror that I would seem like nothing more than a star-struck fan girl, out of her league.

But disappointing them took an immediate back seat to the overwhelming certainty I would let down the mastermind behind the epic saga—that I would fall horrifically short of her expectations of me.

By nothing short of a miracle, I stumbled my way through the first few scenes without breaking down in the tears that threatened my every breath. I was supposed to be strong. Forceful. Dogmatic, even. A girl who rises as a leader in a post-cataclysmic dystopian society in the midst of a nuclear winter. But I felt the furthest thing from it. I knew I was stiff, wooden, wrong in every way. I could feel L.R.’s stoney gaze focused on me.Iknew he’d made a mistake.Heknew he’d made a mistake. And from across the room, behind the plume of his bourbon-scented vape, Waylon MacArthur made no attempt to conceal his disgust unfolding with every line I uttered.

After MacArthur cleared his throat in unmistakable annoyance for what felt like the hundredth time, Margaret Gilles looked up from where she’d taken a seat beside me, her quick, dark eyes unaffected by age.

“Are you in need of a throat lozenge, Mr. MacArthur?” She didn’t care that she was interrupting the scene. She hauled her bag onto the table—the stereotypical old lady purse with the contents rivaling an estate sale from the seventies—and rummaged through it noisily. What wasn’t seen, however, was the hand she tucked under the table and pressed to my knee.

“I’m fine,” Waylon barked, his chin sinking further into his chest as the vapor clung in a cloud above him. “Let’s get on with it.”

Over the commotion, Margaret gave me a reassuring squeeze. “Breathe, love. Just breathe.”

I don’t know why her simple gesture—her whisper of encouragement—touched me. Why her words soothed the disintegration of my thundering heart. Maybe it was seeing a woman—old, frail, seemingly weak—stand up to a man like MacArthur, challenge him as an equal, undaunted by his overbearing presence, his wealth, his esteem. Or maybe it was simply the gentle reassurance from a stranger that moved me in my time of need.

Whatever it was, it helped. We started again, and this time, I felt like I could find something of myself. Something of the resolute, competent person I knew I could be. I could finally focus on the words—the lines I’d read two dozen times. Maybe I could do this. Maybe this wasn’t out of my reach.

When it was over, I knew I wasn’t up to par, but I hadn’t failed colossally. L.R. told me we’d talk soon to go over some notes he wanted me to focus on for the coming weeks.

It meant I wasn’t fired. At least not yet. And Grady and Elliott and the rest of the cast were warm and welcoming.

Margaret Gilles hugged me, whispered in my ear that I was everything she ever envisioned for Addy, and slipped me her cell phone number on a gum wrapper, telling me to call her if I wanted to discuss anything. I assured her I would, and wished I’d known how to better thank her. For everything. Even Waylon MacArthur grumbled Merry Christmas as I passed him at the door on my way to the street.

I’d survived day one, even though all the way to my car I half expected L.R. or Waylon to rush out and fire me. But they didn’t, and as I hit the 101 North, I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry or scream.