The warehouse squats at the edge of a freeway overpass, all flaking gray paint and rust-streaked loading bays, the kind of building I used to drive past on my way to real work.
My GPS chirps that I’ve arrived, but it’s the handwritten sign that actually convinces me: a piece of cardboard duct-taped beside the roll-up door, “FILM SHOOT – CAST/CREW” in black marker. No studio logo. No security guard with an iPad list of approved names.
I kill the engine and sit for a second, listening to trucks rumble on the overpass, the faint hiss of the city already warming up. The air smells like hot metal and distant fryer oil from a nearby taqueria, not eucalyptus and curated incense the way it does in Laurel Canyon.
My hands rest on the steering wheel a beat too long.
I picture the other sets I’ve arrived at: caravans of matching trailers, assistants handing me iced green juice, Marcus already on the phone orchestrating a dozen invisible favors. My name printed in a sleek font on a door.
Here, someone has taped a paper call sheet to the warehouse wall. The breeze lifts one corner, making it flutter like a flag that might tear away.
I grab my backpack—no rolling luggage, no garment bag—and step out into the sun.
The asphalt radiates heat through my sneakers. From inside the open door, I hear clanking metal and low voices, the scrape of something heavy dragged across concrete. A cool draft spills out, carrying the dry smell of sawdust and the faint sweetness of grocery-store donuts.
“Hey! Nora?” a voice calls.
A person in a faded hoodie and cargo shorts jogs over, lanyard bouncing.
“Yeah,” I say. “Hi.”
“I’m Jen, one of the ADs,” they say, slightly out of breath. “You found us. Gold star.”
“The cardboard sign helped,” I say.
Jen grins.
“Welcome to our glamorous empire,” they say, sweeping an arm toward the interior. “No trailers, sorry. We’ve got chairs, a coffee urn, and a bathroom that mostly works.”
“Luxury,” I say. “Thank you for having me.”
The words come out a little too formal. Old habits wrap politeness around nerves.
Inside, the warehouse is bigger than it looked from the street. Sunlight slants through dirty high windows, catching dust motes in slow motion. Someone’s rigged black duvetyne to block a few of the worst leaks, but strips of brightness still slash across the concrete like accidental spotlights.
Instead of constructed suburban living rooms or elaborate burning mills, this set is a series of chalk outlines on the floor, half-built walls, and a cluster of mismatched furniture waiting to be placed. Coils of cable lie in careful loops. A metal staircase bolts to one side, leading up to a catwalk that looks actually sturdy.
My chest tightens at the sight of the stairs.
The cold metal tang in the air pulls up the memory of the mill’s wet railings, of my hand on rust and Lila’s body tipping away. I rub my fingertips against my palm until the sensation shifts back to the present: this staircase is dry, new, unscarred.
A folding table near the center holds the promised coffee urn, cups, and a cardboard box of donuts dusted in glaze. The smell is cheap sugar and dark roast rather than craft-service variety, but the association snaps into place anyway—sets always smell like coffee and something sweet, no matter the budget.
People move around the space in comfortable sweats and worn jeans, adjusting light stands, checking tape marks. There’s no visible hierarchy in their clothes; no one glides through in designer sunglasses. A couple of them glance over, recognition flickering across their faces before they look politely away.
Jen steers me toward a cluster of folding chairs arranged in a rough circle.
“We’re doing our first-day thing in five,” they say. “Mara wants everyone, even day players, in one place. You can drop your stuff over there.”
My name is taped to the back of one chair in black marker, the same Sharpie handwriting as the cardboard sign. No fancy font, no laminated star.
The sight steadies me.
I loop my backpack over the chair and feel exposed without the buffer of a trailer. There’s nowhere to disappear for a last-minute fix, no mirror to make sure my eyeliner hasn’t smudged. Which is fine; today I’m wearing mascara and tinted sunscreen, nothing more.
“Nora Hayes,” someone murmurs behind me, not quite whispering, more like testing the volume.
I turn.
A young actor—twenty, maybe, with a buzz cut and a chipped black nail polish situation—stands awkwardly holding a sides packet. Their T-shirt features a band I actually know, not some designer logo.
“Hi,” I say, offering my hand. “I’m Nora. I guess you know that.”
Their cheeks flush.
“Yeah. I mean. I grew up watching you,” they say. “My name’s Vic. I’m playing Shay.”
“Nice to meet you, Vic,” I say.
Our hands shake, a little sweaty on both sides. It’s a normal interaction, but the part of my brain trained by a decade of press junkets whispers about optics, about who’s watching.
I shut that part down.
“Alright, circle!” someone calls.
Mara, the director, steps into the center of the chairs. She wears a loose black jumpsuit and beat-up sneakers, her curly hair piled into a messy knot. A pair of glasses slides down her nose as she raises both hands.
“Good morning,” she says. “Thank you for being here and for picking this chaos over higher-paying chaos.”
A ripple of laughter moves through the group.
I sink into my chair between Vic and a grip named Carla. The metal edge digs into the back of my thighs, grounding in an uncomfortable way.
“Standard version of this would be: names, roles, favorite movie,” Mara says. “We’re not doing that. I want names, pronouns if you want to share, what department you’re in, and one thing you need to feel safe working here. That can be physical, emotional, spiritual, whatever the hell.”
My heart rate kicks up.
I’m used to first-day welcomes that mention “family” and “magic” and “gratitude.” Not safety. Not out loud.
Mara starts to her left, letting the circle unwind.
“I’m Carla, she/her, grip,” Carla says. “I need people to actually listen when I say we need more time for rigging. No ‘we’ll fix it in post’ on structural stuff.”
“Amen,” someone mutters.
A camera assistant says they need clear communication about when we’re rolling so they can rest their shoulders between takes. A PA says they need people not to hand them secret tasks that contradict what ADs say. A background actor says they need a place to sit that isn’t a floor or a stair.
Each answer chips away at my sense that I’m an intruder here, reminding me that everyone has something, that I am not the only one dragging history to this space.
Vic introduces themself on my left.
“I’m Vic, they/them, playing Shay,” they say. “I need people to treat my concerns about gendered wardrobe as actual concerns, not quirks. No ‘but it would be so cute’ if I say no.”
Mara nods.
“Copy that,” she says. “We make cute from consent, not coercion.”
My turn lands.
For a second, every face in the circle is a lens, waiting. My throat tightens, the familiar instinct surging up: smooth this, be charming, say something self-deprecating but safe.
Lila’s voice cuts through that reflex: use the access you stole to buy seats you don’t sit in.
I inhale, the warehouse air tasting like dust and stale sugar.
“I’m Nora,” I say. “She/her. I’m playing Mara’s idiot aunt.”
A small chuckle breaks the tension, mine included.
I keep going before I can give myself an exit.
“I’ve worked on sets where people got hurt,” I say. “Physically, emotionally. Some of that harm was because of me; some of it was baked into the way we did things. I need us to agree that no shot, no schedule, no performance is worth someone leaving here worse than they arrived. If at any point something feels unsafe, I need you to feel like you can say so. And if there’s pushback on that, I need you to know I’ll back you publicly, not just in private.”
The room goes quiet in a way I recognize from therapy, not from set.
No one gasps. No one claps. A few people avoid my eyes. One person in the back has their phone out, not recording, just holding it; their thumb pauses mid-scroll.
Mara’s gaze is steady.
“Thank you,” she says simply. “We’re not here to re-litigate your past today, Nora, but we are absolutely going to learn from it. I’m glad you’re naming that. And I’ll say this: if anyone feels like they can’t raise a concern to me directly, you can go to Nora. If that doesn’t work, come to Jen. There will be no retaliation. We’d rather shut down for an hour than send someone to the hospital or home with a story that keeps them up for a decade.”
A few heads nod vigorously.
My palms are damp against my jeans. I wipe them on my thighs under cover of movement, heart pounding.
The circle moves on.
A stunt coordinator isn’t on this show; there are no stunts. That absence tastes bittersweet—relief and grief sharing the same space. A sound mixer says they need people not to yell in their mics. Someone from wardrobe asks for realistic timelines so they don’t have to pin clothes on moving bodies mid-take.
By the time we finish and break for coffee, the edges of my nerves have dulled into something steadier. Still sharp, but usefully so.
At the table, I pour coffee from the heavy urn into a Styrofoam cup. The liquid sloshes, smelling bitter and comforting. I skip the donuts; glaze sticks in my throat now in a way it never used to.
“Hey,” Vic says softly beside me. “Can I say something without it being weird?”
“We’re already in a warehouse at eight a.m. drinking mystery coffee,” I say. “We’ve passed weird.”
They huff a quick laugh, then glance around to make sure no one’s hovering.
“I heard the podcast,” they say. “Quinn’s. I saw your live thing. And the fire coverage. People in my acting class talk about it all the time, usually like it’s a cautionary tale about fame or cancel culture or whatever.”
My shoulders tense.
“I’m sorry you had to process me as curriculum,” I say.
“That’s kind of the thing,” they say. “It’s usually other people framing it. Today you framed it. You named it. On a set. I’ve been on jobs where I felt weird about a stunt or a wardrobe thing, and people implied I was ungrateful, like I should be happy just to be there. Hearing you say you’d back us? That lands.”
I look at them, this kid who grew up watching my movies and then my public dissection.
“Thank you for telling me,” I say. “And for calling bullshit on ‘just be grateful.’ Your safety matters more than my comfort. If anyone suggests otherwise, use me.”
“Use you?” they echo, eyebrows up.
“Name-drop me,” I clarify. “Say, ‘Nora said this doesn’t work for her either.’ People still see me as leverage, for better or worse. I’d rather that leverage protect someone.”
Vic bites into a donut, powdered sugar dusting their lip.
“I can do that,” they say. “Also, for what it’s worth, my mom’s from a mill town in Pennsylvania. She grew up hating the way rumors stuck to girls forever. She watched your confession and said, ‘Maybe that one’s finally figuring it out.’”
My grip tightens around the cup, hot cardboard pressing into my palm.
“Tell her I’m trying,” I say.
“I will,” they reply.
Jen claps their hands near the circle of chairs.
“Blocking!” they call. “Scene three, everyone. Let’s go make art we can afford.”
The first setup is simple: a kitchen table conversation with my on-screen niece. No explosions, no fire, no rain machines. Still, when the gaffer suggests using a small step stool to cheat the angle on a practical lamp, I watch the exchange like it’s the third act of a thriller.
“We can just stack two apple boxes,” a PA offers. “Save time.”
Carla shakes her head.
“No stacks without locking,” she says. “We have the time to do it right.”
Jen glances at Mara.
“You okay adding ten minutes?” they ask.
Old reflex: calculate schedule, budget, overtime, PR. Hear Marcus’s voice whispering about good will and professionalism. That voice used to have my reflexive yes to cutting corners.
“We’re okay,” Mara says. “We scheduled more break than money. We’ll steal from break, not safety. Everyone good with that?”
A murmur of agreement rises.
I catch Carla’s eye.
“Thank you for pushing that,” I say.
“Thank you for not arguing,” she replies. “Heard stories about big names losing it over apple boxes.”
“I’ve been that story,” I say. “I’d like to retire her.”
We take our marks.
The set’s “kitchen” is just a corner of the warehouse dressed with a thrift-store table, chipped mugs, and a window frame backed with diffusion and a printout of a suburban street. The illusion is thin, but the air feels honest in a way Stage 14 never did.
The young actor playing my niece, Bri, sits opposite me, her hands wrapped around a mug of prop coffee that still smells faintly of dish soap. She’s nervous; I see it in the way her knee bounces under the table.
“You good?” I murmur before the slate.
“You’re Nora Hayes,” she whispers. “I’m trying not to throw up.”
“I’m Nora,” I say. “And you’re Bri, who knows her lines better than I do. If anything feels weird or off, you say cut. Even if Mara hasn’t. Okay?”
Her eyes widen.
“I can’t call cut,” she says.
“You can,” I say. “We just decided. You, me, here.”
“Picture’s up!” Mara calls. “Sound?”
“Speeding,” the sound mixer answers.
Bri takes a breath that steadies her shoulders. When the first beat of the scene hits, she meets my eyes with a clarity that has nothing to do with fame and everything to do with trust.
“And… action,” Mara says.
The words of the script flow, but underneath them runs a quieter line, one I couldn’t have improvised a year ago: you are not the center, you are part of the structure. Protect it.
We get through the scene in three takes, not because I’m brilliant, but because no one is rushing to manufacture perfection at the cost of their own bodies.
At lunch, there’s no private trailer, just a long line at a rented taco truck parked by the warehouse. The tortillas are warm, the hot sauce makes my nose run, and the sun bounces off the nearby glass office buildings, fractured reflections staring down at our little production.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
A text from Quinn lights up the screen between bites: a photo of a whiteboard that reads “Season 5 – Labor Stories, Not Redemption Arcs,” plus the caption, Starting with stunt workers. You okay if I name the fund on-mic?
I wipe salsa from my fingers and stare at the message, the taco heat lingering on my tongue, the warehouse humming behind me with the low chatter of people who know they’re visible and valuable.
The director calls for us to reset in ten.
I type back, then pause with my thumb hovering, aware that whatever I send will ripple out into another story about me, about us, about what justice looks like on a good day and a bad one.
For the second time in my life, I stand between a camera and a choice, wondering which version of myself I’ll let walk back onto this smaller set—and whether I can keep her here when the next offer isn’t this simple.