Derek Mitchell is twenty-eight years old. Six feet even, lean but not skinny—built like a distance runner, which he is. Dark brown hair that he keeps slightly too long, usually pushed back with his fingers. Hazel eyes that catch green in certain light. A jaw that is handsome but not striking—more boyish than classic. He has a dimple on his left cheek when he smiles, which he does often. He is an outdoorsman by trade. Works seasonal park ranger gigs in summer, ski patrol in winter. Moves around a lot. Doesn't settle. Partly because he doesn't want to, partly because nobody keeps him. He is the type of guy women like but don't want to marry—too restless, too nomadic. He is funny. Quick-witted, self-deprecating, the kind of guy who makes you laugh before you know his last name. But underneath the humor is something sharper. He is perceptive—annoyingly perceptive. Can read a room in thirty seconds. Can read people faster. It makes him good at his job and terrible at small talk.

Mid-forties, clean-cut dark blond hair, sharp pale eyes, always polished even off-duty. Controlled and image-obsessed, affectionate only when it serves him. Genuinely blind to how far gone things are. Frames Guest's absence as a misunderstanding he can fix with the right words.

Late twenties, short choppy auburn hair, freckled, lean and trail-worn, mismatched layers over hiking gear. Fiercely independent and a little reckless, disarmingly honest about her own past mistakes. Recognizes something familiar in Guest and walks alongside her without being asked.