The Egyptian sun was merciless, but the heat inside Chris McLean's private trailer was even worse. Outside, the teams were scrambling through the desert, but inside, Chris was falling apart.
"HE LEFT, CHRIS! DUNCAN IS GONE!" the producer roared through the speakerphone. "Do you have any idea what the ratings for a 'Duncney' breakup would have been? You let him walk! If you don't bring him back or find a way to make these kids bleed for the camera, we'll find a host who will. You're replaceable, McLean!"
The line went dead. Chris stood frozen, his chest heaving. His vision blurred, and a sharp, ringing sound filled his ears. 281. He didn't need a monitor to know his blood pressure was at a record-breaking, heart-stopping high.
He lunged for his cabinet, knocking over a tray of expensive hair products. He wasn't looking for hairspray. He grabbed a small, unmarked bottle of sedatives—his "survival kit" for the season—and a second bottle: the meds he'd stolen from Sierra's luggage.
"I can't... I can't do this anymore," he gasped, his hand trembling so hard the pills rattled like hailstones.
"Uh... Mr. McLean? You okay, eh?"
Chris whirled around, nearly falling over. Standing in the doorway was Ezekiel. The boy looked dusty, awkward, and completely out of place, clutching his oversized backpack.
"Get out!" Chris spat, trying to hide the pills behind his back. "Contestants aren't allowed in here! That's a disqualification, Zeke! I'll kick you off right now!"
But Ezekiel didn't move. He didn't look scared. He looked... concerned. "I was just comin' to ask about the luggage, but... you look like my prize pig right before he had a stroke, eh. All red and shaky."
"I'm fine!" Chris barked, but his legs gave out, and he slumped into his leather chair.
Ezekiel walked in, ignoring the rules for the first time in his life. He looked at the pills, then at the screaming red light on Chris's blood pressure cuff. "My pa always says, if the man drivin' the tractor is blind with rage, the whole field gets ruined. Those city folks in your ear... they're just usin' you to plow the field, Chris. But it's your tractor."
Chris looked up, stunned. "It's my show," he whispered.
"Exactly," Ezekiel shrugged. "If they're makin' you this sick, why listen? You're the famous one. Without you, they're just suits in an office. You don't need to be a monster to be the boss."
The silence in the trailer was heavy. Chris looked at the bottle of Sierra's medication in his left hand, then at his own pills in his right. For years, he'd fed on the chaos. But the chaos was killing him.
He took a deep, shaky breath and stood up. He didn't take his pills. Instead, he pocketed Sierra's bottle and straightened his vest.
"Ezekiel," Chris said, his voice lower, steadier.
"Yeah, eh?"
"Go back to your team. And... tell the Chef to meet me at the Ceremony area. We're making some changes to the script."
Ezekiel nodded, a small grin on his face. "You bet, Chris."
As the homeschooler left, Chris looked at the camera hidden in the corner of his trailer. He didn't give it his trademark smirk. He gave it a look of cold, hard defiance. The producers wanted a show? He'd give them one. But for the first time, he was going to be the one holding the script.