Next thing we know, Sasha is pulling into a remote Australian gas station, ready for her next challenge, a solo kayaking trip in a sprawling national park. Yet there’s something somber and closed-off about her; it’s clear she still hasn’t gotten over Tommy’s death. A park ranger warns her against traveling solo, pointing ominously to a board cluttered with pictures of missing persons, ostensibly victims of nature’s wrath, its snakes, or at least its twisty, bewildering trails. But Sasha is unfazed. Not even a bunch of leering hunters, stopping in for last-minute gas and provisions and virtually undressing her with their eyes, can rattle her. A gentleman bystander—he makes and sells meat jerky, and he’s dropping off his latest batch—witnesses the goons’ behavior and later apologizes to her for not speaking up. Sasha waves him off—she doesn’t need any man’s protection—though later, because he seems friendly enough, she asks him for directions. He describes a special, secret, tantalizingly remote spot and tells her exactly how to get there. The warning bells don’t go off for her, even if they’re probably clanging boisterously for you.
